Kaleidoscope Heart
by Zayz
Summary: T/Z. Tony successfully executes an elaborate heist to hack into Ziva's e-mail and finds out the truth about the guy in Miami - and the relationship spirals from there. A mature T. Complete!
1. Operation Miami Candy

A/N: So…while I'm not new to fan fiction and generally writing like a maniac, I _am _new to the fandom of NCIS. I found the show over this past summer and I'm utterly addicted.

Thus far, I've been wary of foraying into the NCIS world in fan fic, because the characters are so lovely that it would be a crime to mangle them, but Tony/Ziva (Tiva, I believe it's called?) is just too tempting to explore. Plus, with all the unbearable tension (particularly in this recent episode, "Dead Air," with the recurring themes from "Under Covers") I couldn't help myself.

I don't expect you to lie when you review this one – i.e. telling me it's good when in actuality you don't believe it is good enough to manure your lawn – but I do want you to know that this is my first time writing for NCIS and tips on how to improve are preferred to spitting fire at my mistakes.

Cheers and enjoy!  
(And review.)

* * *

**I. Operation Miami Candy  
**

Ziva: If – and when – you meet my friend – and I emphasize 'if' – what will you say?  
Tony: Be careful. Handle with care. Contents – priceless.

* * *

_Part I: The Inception_

Ziva's computer is mocking him.

It must be. It sits there, gray and cool and purring serenely in the quiet of the office, smug with the knowledge of all the intimate secrets it is entrusted with.

If that is not mockery at its cruelest, he doesn't know what could be.

Today is one of those mornings in which, by some miracle, Tony is in the office, adorned with coffee breath and donut shavings on his jacket, before everybody else. He has checked his phone messages (none) and his e-mail (there were several amusing forwards but nothing of real consequence) and he has not put off any paperwork.

Everything is done and he has a few minutes yet to kill before McGee, Ziva and Gibbs will make an appearance. So he chooses to stare irritably at Ziva's computer.

If only McGee would use his powers for good; instead of helping Tony hack into her computer – more specifically, her e-mail account – he has allied with the enemy and instead installed a security camera that will catch intruders in the act. And he installed it because Ziva specifically wanted to keep Tony out of her files, believing him (quite correctly) to be the biggest threat to her personal security. Now there is no way to know what's really going on with her Mr. Miami Candy.

He glowers once again at the computer. He is determined not to let it win. He _will _hack into that computer and he _will _find out about Mr. Miami Candy; it's only a matter of time. He will figure out a way, with or without McGee. He is an investigator after all; this is what he's paid to do.

Triumphant in this latest thought, Tony pulls out a piece of paper from the desk and begins fervently to write. Unhelpfully, Ziva chooses this particular moment to saunter into the office, take one look at him, and snort loudly.

"Early _and _working," she remarks. "What, is this some kind of midnight zone I should be concerned about?"

"Twilight zone," he corrects in a slight growl, brows furrowed over the paper. He spares her smirking expression only a brief glance before returning to his list.

"Whatever." She laughs an easy laugh and settles into her seat, warming up her computer to check her e-mails.

And he can only focus on the list of ways in which to accomplish Operation Miami Candy.

* * *

_Part II: The Appeal_

Obviously, to accomplish the task at hand, Tony would need someone savvy with technology. Since McGee is currently out of the question, there is only one person he can think of that would be good enough to break into a sophisticated personal security system:

Abby Sciuto.

Gibbs, in his usual fashion, had slammed them with another case this morning and evidence from the scene has yet to be processed. Particularly benevolent, Tony offers to bring it down to her and is left to do so. He obliges with pleasure.

Abby's lab – frigid, black and emanating sound waves from the rhythm of the heavy bass drums she is listening to – is as bustling and busy as ever when Tony arrives with the evidence boxes. She is standing at her computer, typing something; and when he enters, she turns around and smiles.

"Hey, Tony!"

Her exuberance is infectious; he grins as she relieves him of his load and adds her own, squeezing him into one of her bone-crushing hugs.

"Hey, Abby," he says. "There's the evidence for you."

"Thank you," she says graciously, peering with interest into the maze of plastic bags and colored labels. "I will let you know when I've got something."

"Great."

Though she obviously expects him to leave her in peace with the evidence, he loiters by the door, hesitant to leave.

She notices.

"Yes, Tony?" Her nose wrinkles with curiosity and her hands go to her hips.

"I was…wondering if you could do me a favor," he says delicately.

"Of course! What's up?" she responds as he knew she would.

"I need you to break a code for me."

"My favorite." Her smile is mischievous as she cracks her knuckles. "Which one? Where is it? Let me at it."

"It's…on Ziva's computer," says Tony. He is sure to keep it slow: Abby has her own code of conduct and he can never be confident that he is not encroaching on one of her list of things never to do. She and Ziva are good friends; she may be deeply unwilling to break Ziva's trust. Or she may see Tony's desperation and condescend to help him.

With Abby, he can never know; but judging by the suspicious purse of her mouth as she digests this statement, he can guess this won't end well.

"Which code?" she repeats.

"Actually, it's kind of a funny story." Tony tries his best to smile, but even he knows that it comes off weak and a little forced. "See, McGee – goofball that he is – installed this insane security system onto Ziva's computer and now I can't get in – and there's this thing in her e-mail I have to check out for her and I need you to do that typing thing where you get past the firewall and—"

"No! Absolutely not! I would never _dream _of using my hacking skills to do that to Ziva!" she flares up at once, giving him a head-smack so astonishingly like Gibbs' in intensity, making his vision pop and go white for a moment. Tony shakes his head like a punch-drunk dog and tries to recover from both pain and shock alike as Abby's full wrath unfolds before him.

"How could you _possibly _ask something like that of me, Tony, I mean, _really_?" she thunders, hot and indignant, pacing furiously about the lab. "You are one of my best friends and you want me to go behind one of my other best friend's back to help you spy, or cheat, or—or—what do you want with Ziva's computer and e-mail anyway?"

She breaks the anxious spiel for a moment to whirl around and face him straight on, eyes wide. Perhaps he is still unsteady from the vicious head-smack, but he is caught perplexed by this.

"Ummm…it's personal?"

Of course that doesn't fly. Abby appears tempted to head-smack him again but mercifully refrains.

"Seriously, Dinozzo, if you want my help, I need to know why," she says. "If it's like what happened with Rivkin and you have legitimate suspicions, I wanna know about them. Now."

He considers briefly what version of the truth to give her, but ultimately decides on none of them. He subsides and shakes his head.

"It's nothing like that this time," he says somewhat gravely. "Never mind. I'm sorry I asked."

And with this statement, he exits the lab with murky eyes, leaving Abby there to wonder in his wake.

* * *

_Part III: The Wheedling_

For once, Tony is so glad that he knows Hannah DeCarlo.

He met her once outside of work and she immediately seemed quite taken with him; they had coffee and tough he thought he made it perfectly clear that he wanted little else to do with her after that, she kept sending friendly e-mails and text messages, apparently oblivious.

But now, she is quite possibly the most valuable person he knows.

Taking greater care than usual to fluff his hair, Tony saunters up to the techie section of the building where Hannah works and charms a couple of hapless interns into showing him where Hannah's office is. Hannah sits there, complete with neat skirt and matching headband, typing something on the computer. Her open valentine of a face turns a bright, blotchy red when she figures out the identity of her visitor.

"Oh, hey, Tony," she blusters. The combination of nerves and a naturally high, thin voice makes her sound starved for breath. "What's up?"

"Hey there, Hannah Banana," he says, his voice particularly deep and throaty when contrasted with hers. "Working hard?"

"Yeah…" Her eyes dart between her computer and his face. "But, you know, a short break wouldn't kill me. It's great to see you. You never come up here."

He feigns a regretful sigh. "I know," he says. "Work is just so busy."

"I understand…" Her ears are infection-red; she bites her lip. "But hey, you're here now. Do you want to go get some coffee or something?"

"I'm actually a little tied up – only have a few minutes here," he explains hastily. "But we could go later this week. Right now, I have a favor to ask."

"Sure," she breathes. "What's up?"

"I was wondering if you could give me the passwords to Ziva David's computer and e-mail accounts?" He now pulls on a concerned face. "See, she lost it this morning and can't remember either of them for the life of her. She's so flustered, poor thing, and I told her I could get them real fast from you, hassle-free, and we can all put this behind us. Do you mind? She's just so upset and she's waiting for me downstairs."

"That's so sweet of you!" Hannah's face lights up like a Christmas tree with delight, thrilled with this open display of touching affection for his co-worker. "Well…as you know, we are not generally allowed to look up passwords for our employees – it's personal information – but I suppose…"

"I don't want to put you in any awkward positions here," he says quickly, his earnestness almost killing them both. "If you can't help us, it's fine, I can ask around elsewhere…"

"No, no," Hannah says at once. "I can make an exception here; you only want to help your friend. It can be our little secret."

Her face still shines and he feels horribly guilty – he knows he does – but he lets her type in Ziva's name with almost childish gusto. After a moment, Hannah arrives at a screen full of writing with Ziva's picture on it and scribbles something on a Pink Post-It.

"There," she says, holding it out to him proudly. "Now tell her not to lose this one."

"Thanks, Hannah." Tony smiles as understandingly as he can muster. "Thanks so much. I'll see you around, okay?"

"Bye, Tony!" She waves sweetly after him.

He smiles back but bolts back to Ziva's desk like something bit him. Thankfully, she and McGee are out exploring the victim's workplace while Gibbs is in M-TAC and he had been left with desk-work (which he had already done). Torn between intense guilt and burning curiosity, he eagerly types in the first password Hannah gave him for the computer.

To his joy, it seems to work. The screen obediently changes. McGee must have had to report the password upstairs, since extra impenetrable programs aren't really allowed at NCIS for security reasons.

Well, all the better for Tony. Now to collect his prize.

Patiently, he waits for the welcome screen to load so that he's into Ziva's account. But to his horror, the computer kicks him back to the original screen, which now reads 'incorrect password.'

Of course! McGee must have installed something that only Ziva could enter before logging into her account so that even if Tony somehow got his hands on the official passwords, he wouldn't get a hold of the new one!

He lets his forehead fall to the keyboard with a groan of despair: all that flirting for nothing.

And of course, Gibbs chooses now to stride and snap, "Hey, Dinozzo, this is no time for a nap. We got the BOLO back on the vehicle; we need to go. Call Ziva and McGee."

And of course, he jumps up and runs to his phone.

* * *

_Part IV: The Bribery_

Abby has forsaken him. Techies with passwords prove to be useless. He never learned how to use a computer so his education has forsaken him.

There is nothing more Tony can think of to do except the impossible.

At first, he resists the idea. No, no, of course he shouldn't do that. It's demeaning. It's humiliating. And frankly, it's unnecessary. An idea will come to him and it will work. It will. And then he will get into Ziva's computer and he will get into her e-mail (which he now has the password for) and he will be able to peruse her conversations with Mr. Miami Candy in peace.

It will work. It must.

But a few hours later, with his brain feeling like pureed mush coming out of his ears from both this failed operation and the confusing case, he realizes with a sinking sensation in his stomach that in actuality, this will not work.

So, hating himself intensely for succumbing this way, he gets out his wallet and prepares himself to do the impossible.

When McGee and Ziva return from the workplace, they come with the victim's boss in cuffs. Gibbs grants Ziva the pleasure of interrogating him and follows her to the observation room. The arrangement couldn't be better: Tony and McGee are now alone in their part of the office.

This maneuver – risky as it is – must be done with the utmost care and precision. It will call upon all the subtlety and discretion Tony has in him. He must be sure to do it right.

McGee sits poised at his desk, immersed in something on the screen, his fingers skittering with purpose around the keyboard. Tony clears his throat delicately to get his attention.

"So, McSmarty-Pants," he says, "what have you got over there?"

"Running checks on Brotanger," says McGee.

"The guy Ziva is interrogating?"

"That's the one," confirms McGee. "We wanted to bring him in for questioning but he resisted, so we had to use the cuffs."

"Sounds exciting. But hey—are you in the market for fifty bucks?"

McGee frowns. "Fifty bucks?"

"Yeah, the one with that one bearded guy on the front."

"Grant?"

Tony grins. "Yeah. Him."

"So…why would I be in the market for fifty bucks?"

"Everyone is in the market for fifty bucks," Tony scoffs. "It's fifty bucks! Free!"

"So why don't you ask everyone? Why ask me?"

"Because you are my McCo-worker," explains Tony. "My McBrother, if you will. You are _always_ the first on my list."

"I'm touched." His voice drips with sarcasm. "Now what do you want?"

"I want Ziva's password," Tony says at once, abandoning all pretence. "I'll give you fifty bucks for it. I need to get into her computer."

McGee's cocky smile is more than a little suspicious. "Really? And why would you need to get into her computer?"

"Because I just do, all right?" Tony insists, deciding not to mention he was hoping for evidence of pictures and/or naughty videos on her computer. "For fifty bucks? The password?"

"Gee, I don't know, Tony," says McGee complacently, leaning back in his seat, surveying his colleague over the top of his computer. "I think it would take a lot more than fifty bucks to get me to break the confidence of a friend."

"Fine, a hundred bucks, and I'll do your paperwork for a week," says Tony in a near-growl. "How's that, McGreedy-Pants?"

"The insults are not appreciated, particularly when you ask such a big favor of me," McGee remarks. "Let's say…one hundred and fifty bucks, paperwork for two weeks and no more jokes about my last name for life."

Tony's eyes go wide with astonishment. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," says McGee. "And you would have to sign a contract."

"Why?"

"Because I don't trust you."

Tony glowers; McGee smirks. The two of them stare each other down for a few still moments, trying to determine where this would go.

McGee's price is steep. A little too steep. The cogs turn in Tony's head and McGee asks, "How much do you want to get into Ziva's computer, Tony?"

Badly, Tony muses. He wants to get in pretty badly. But not this badly.

Straightening up and regaining some of his lost dignity, Tony says, "I do not want to take this deal."

"Suit yourself." Clearly believing otherwise, McGee returns to his work with a prim smile on his face, deciding to humor him. Tony shoots McGee another glare before returning to his own computer.

Needless to say, this did not go well.

* * *

_Part V: The Resolution_

For the rest of the afternoon, Tony works on the case and idly fantasizes about what he might find on Ziva's computer concerning Mr. Miami Candy. However, when he is preparing to leave the office for the evening, Ziva marches up to his desk and gives him a firm slap on the back of his head. Tony – not expecting this – yelps with astonishment.

"Ziva! Geez, what the heck was that for?" He attempts to massage the back of his head.

First Gibbs, now Abby, then Ziva. He isn't going to have any functioning brain cells left by the time he is done with this job.

"That was for trying to bribe McGee to get the password to my computer!" Ziva thunders.

Tony stiffens. "He told you?"

"Yes, he told me!" Ziva says, eyes glinting with menace. "He caught me on the way out of interrogation!"

Silently, he curses himself. He had not made McGee swear to keep this a secret; now he had told Ziva and now his genitals are in deep peril – he would not put it past Ziva to castrate him in his sleep. Guiltily, he swallows.

"Um…yeah," he says. "But, to McGee's credit, he didn't tell me what it was."

Ziva's hands go to her hips. "You could have asked, you know," she says.

"Asked what?"

"Asked whatever you wanted to get off of my computer!" Ziva tells him. "What _did _you want, anyway?"

He feels himself shrink slightly under the intensity of her gaze.

"Nothing really," he says.

"Well, obviously not, since you were willing to do paperwork _and _pay McGee," she points out.

"Okay, okay," he says, subsiding. "I wanted to find out about your guy in Miami."

"Still?" Ziva appears genuinely surprised. "But I thought you gave up on that?"

"No," he confesses. "I wanted to check your e-mails and see if you had any pictures."

Ziva's mouth purses – a bad sign. But she doesn't hit him again – a good sign. She considers the situation for another moment before speaking again.

"While your honesty is appreciated, Tony, your snooping is not," she says. "My relationship with him is _my _business. If I wished to share it with you, I would have done so already."

"Just tell me this – is he better-looking than I am?" asks Tony.

Ziva actually smiles. "I am not at liberty to divulge that."

"So he _is_!" Tony proclaims dramatically.

Her laugh is soft and somewhat affectionate.

"No, Tony."

"No, he's not better-looking than I am?"

"No, I'm not going to tell you anything about him," she says. "And this is why."

"What is why?"

"This! The questions!" Ziva says. "I don't want to be plagued by questions about what he looks like or how I feel about him or how good he is in bed."

"I would ask those whether or not I knew anything about him," he reminds her.

"Still," she says. "I don't want to talk about it. But it's sweet that you care so much."

"I don't care," he retorts babyishly.

Ziva picks up her bag from her desk, slings it over her shoulder, and gives him a condescending smile. "Of course you don't."

He glowers back at her, but she is strangely cheerful tonight, smiling playfully back at him before strolling towards the elevators. He watches her go, trying to figure out what just happened, but now McGee comes back upstairs and Tony chooses instead to glare at him.

"Nice move, Mc-Smooth," he says, "telling Ziva about our conversation."

McGee nods. "Knew you'd appreciate it."

Tony shoots him one last look before picking up his bag. "I'm heading out. Good night."

"Me too. Good night."

McGee picks up his bag as well and walks out the same way Ziva did. Gibbs is nowhere to be seen. Tony is alone in the office.

Sighing, he slings his bag over his shoulder. He considers leaving right away but can't resist the temptation to go back to Ziva's desk. A few loose sheets of paper with her handwriting on them are scattered across the surface. He casually shuffles them around, since he's already seen them, but then starts.

A scrap of paper that had definitely not been there an hour ago reveals itself in the stack.

It is folded neatly into fourths. He picks it up at once and opens it. On it is one word scrawled large in Ziva's hand.

_Admon_.

Grinning with reprised victory, Tony reboots Ziva's computer and types this into the password box.

To his joy, the screen changes immediately and asks him to put in his NCIS username and password. It is all he can do not to whoop with excitement.

He pulls the Post-It Hannah had given him and types in the necessary information. The computer logs him in without a hitch.

He is into Ziva's account.

Heart thumping loudly, he flips through the folders on her hard-drive but doesn't find any pictures or videos. Undaunted, he logs into her e-mail. There are no new messages, so he goes into the old ones. She apparently cleared these out as well.

He tries the Saved Mail folder. Here, there is only one message.

_Ziva,_

_I'm so sorry to do this over e-mail; I wish I could call you, but the power is down right now and this needs to be done right away. This whole long-distance relationship thing is not working out. We had a great time in Miami, but with you being where you are, thousands of miles away, I feel like we're going through the motions. Maybe another day._

_All my best,_

_Brian_

The date sent informs him that this message was sent yesterday. Tony has to reread this message several times before it sinks in.

Mr. Miami Candy – Brian – broke up with Ziva yesterday, over e-mail, with the vague explanation of the power being down. Obviously he is lying; if he has the power available to e-mail, he should have it to call.

But _e-mail_! The relationship had lasted several weeks and he chose to end it electronically. What a despicable piece of beach trash. Ziva is better off without him.

Satisfied, however sadly, Tony logs out of Ziva's e-mail and account. But something is bothering him. He will have to resolve it before he goes, or he will go insane. So he decides, as an investment in his sanity, he will resolve it.

He logs into his own computer this time and opens up Google. He types in the word 'admon' and waits for the search results to come up.

When they do, he smiles with such shock and softness that he ought to be grateful none of his co-workers are around to witness it or they would tease him for the rest of his life. Something warm unfolds inside his gut, invades his entire body, and refuses to leave.

Because Admon is the Hebrew translation of the name Anthony.

He steps into the elevator and waits to go down to the parking garage, pondering this development almost to the point of obsession. He is so caught up in his thoughts that his buzzing phone takes him entirely by surprise; he jumps almost a foot in the air before he answers it.

He doesn't check the caller ID, so for one wild moment, he thinks it's Ziva. But then a different voice comes through the speaker.

"Hey, Tony! Are you free tonight? Can you come to the coffee shop on 67th Street and meet me?"

It's Hannah DeCarlo.

Tony groans. The joy of two seconds ago is instantly eradicated.

"Sure," he says flatly, figuring he owes her. "I'll be right there."

"Great!"

"Bye."

The line goes dead.

* * *

A/N: Please remember to review on the way out!


	2. Taking Initiative

A/N: So, NCIS-ers, let me explain what's going on here because you are probably as confused as I am.

The one-shot previous to this, "Operation Miami Candy," was my very first piece of NCIS writing ever. But the response was so strong that I was a little overwhelmed. Thanks so much for your kind words of love and welcome. An astounding number of you said, "Continue!" So you know what? I'm going to do that.

Here is how this is going to work.

1. This will be what I like to call an open-ended multi-chapter – basically a string of loosely connected one-shots.  
2. The length of each chapter will vary, sometimes very short and other times very long. It just depends on the idea and my frame of mind at the time. But each will have a little quote or song lyric at the beginning to get you in the right mood.  
3. Do not have any expectations of when I will post. Sometimes I will post very often; other times, it'll take me weeks to come back here. I can't say, at this point. We'll just have to wait and see.  
4. I will not completely rule out the possibility of having other ships on here, but for now, my answer to that question is a resounding no.

This fic-let is an answer to "Operation Miami Candy." You know, because you were like, "Come on, Zay, what happens next?"

Cheers and enjoy this one, folks.  
(And review.)

* * *

**II. Taking Initiative**

All the colors of the rainbow  
Hidden 'neath my skin  
Hearts have colors, don't we all know?  
Red runs through our veins

Feel the fire burning  
Up, inspire me  
With red and blue and green

I have hope  
Inside is not a heart  
But a kaleidoscope

- Sara Bareilles, "Kaleidoscope Heart"

* * *

Mid-evening at NCIS oftentimes brings with it a peculiar lull. The case is at a bit of a standstill, the evening is young, and the three of them are stuck at work, sitting at their desks, hoping for a breakthrough and acutely aware of the private social time they could have realistically been enjoying.

In the midst of this particular lull, Gibbs is tied up in M-TAC with Director Vance and McGee has retired to the vending machine for dinner-on-the-go. Tony and Ziva remain in the office, absorbed in their computer screens, thoughts indecipherable.

At least, Ziva's are indecipherable. Tony's are written all over his face, as easy to read as a picture book, if anyone cared to look in the right places.

Yesterday will likely take a long time to get out of his head – the part before suffering through coffee with Hannah DeCarlo, of course. He wasn't able to stop thinking about it the whole of last night. It could simply be a coincidence – maybe Admon was some Israeli friend of hers from years ago – but the Gibbs in him snorted loudly at the thought. Gibbs had rules about coincidences and Gibbs was rarely wrong. This could not be a coincidence.

But if it wasn't a coincidence, it happened on purpose. Ziva picked "Admon" as her password with clear intention. Somehow, he is sure McGee doesn't know what it really means, but Ziva would. Ziva does. And she left him that piece of paper with the password on her desk, where she knew he'd find it, where she knew he would use it and find that e-mail from Mr. Miami Candy.

So then…what did that mean? Was this her way of telling him something? What was he supposed to get out of this? He can't handle the uncertainty.

Frustrated and longing for answers, he looks up and beholds the image of working Ziva. Her face is sweet and open when she's calm, her currently pursed mouth surprisingly small and delicate. Her hair is straight and tied back sedately in a pony-tail; she is wearing make-up. She looks like a typical female agent, focusing on some report, some story she needs to tell somebody later, and it hits him with a pang how much she's changed.

She used to be wild. She used to tease him. She used to flirt with him so outrageously that he was surprised the whole office didn't burst into flame with the heat of it, the tension she could wittingly or unwittingly create. She still does these things, but somehow it feels quieter. More refined.

Maybe it's the untold traumas of her mission in Somalia; maybe she has lost interest in teasing him; maybe she's just grown up. But he feels differently around her now than he used to. It's less of a potent lust and more…loving.

He is attracted to her, certainly, the way any man is attracted to a striking woman. But she is his partner, his friend, first and foremost, and the affection he feels for her runs deeper than what how it used to.

She is different, but so is he.

So where does that leave them?

Tony sighs as quietly as he can in the pin-drop silence and returns to the BOLO he has pining to see resolved. He idly flips through the credit reports of the boss and the victim one more time and then opens up a game of Solitaire. But his thoughts never truly leave the cyclical thoughts and potential meanings that manifested last night.

Eventually, though, Ziva breaks the silence and speaks.

"You know, Tony, I'm still waiting," she says rather matter-of-factly.

"Sorry?" He starts, taken aback by her voice. "What are you waiting for?"

She grins, not looking up from her computer. "For you to take initiative," she says with that same smooth blasé tone of hers. "I can tell you've been bursting to say something all day."

He snorts a little too loudly. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what it means." Only now does she make eye contact, her dark irises particularly mysterious in the dim office light. "You keep looking at me. You appear nervous. I can put two and two together."

"Well, you know, there is something I have been meaning to ask you," he remarks lightly.

"Yes? What is that?"

"It's this Hebrew word I came across in a magazine," he says. "I was wondering what it means. Could I show it to you?"

"Sure."

His heart-rate accelerating significantly, he pulls out the piece of paper upon which Ziva's password was written. He brings it to her desk and smoothes it out in front of her, watching her carefully. Like the pro she is, she doesn't even blink.

"Admon," she states. "Where did you read this exactly?"

"In a magazine," he says.

"Which one?"

"Does it matter?" he asks. "What does it mean?"

She pauses briefly before she answers.

"It is Hebrew for the name Anthony," she says at last.

"Really."

"Yes."

"That's very interesting, Ziva," he says, putting that extra flourish on her name just to annoy her. "Admon. Anthony. Cool connection there."

She looks up at him now, her smile playing around the corners of her mouth with ominous mischief. "Yes, it is. Amazing how names translate."

Maybe five years ago, when Ziva first came to NCIS, she could boast the upper-hand with reading people. Her Mossad training was impeccable and she could baffle him sometimes with the things she immediately inferred about himself and others around them.

But this is not five years ago: Tony has learned a few things since then and can now see a subtle tension in the muscles of Ziva's face, a tension he knows was not there a minute ago. And he knows, the way people sometimes do, that she is well aware of what she's doing here; but for reasons he is not yet privy to, she is playing dumb to test him, to see where he will go from here.

And he decides, upon figuring this, that it would be awful to disappoint her. The beginnings of a smirk begin to play on his mouth as well.

"You know another cool name?" he asks.

"What?"

"Brian," he says without hesitation. "I think that's a super-cool name."

"You do, do you."

"I do," he assures her. "I think it's slang for 'dirtbag.'"

She snickers quietly. "So it's safe to assume that you read the e-mail."

"It's not like you made it that difficult for me," he points out.

She bites her lip with a little sass, but with some restraint, as though she is biting back some response she doesn't want him to hear. Nerves twist in his gut, somehow, waiting for her to say something, anything, maybe explain herself and why she left him that password.

But she doesn't do that. She just smiles like a girl with a secret, and leans back in her seat, observing him slyly over her desk.

"I've never made it difficult for you, Tony," she says simply.

There are a million and five potentially correct interpretations he can make of this single remark, but Tony zeroes in on one and stares at her. She holds his gaze with that same Mona Lisa smirk for a moment more and then goes back to her computer, typing away.

There's only one thing to say now.

"Hey, Ziva?" he blurts out.

"Yes, Tony?" She peers at him from the side of her monitor, the picture of curious serenity.

"Want to get some coffee after work today?"

He freezes; her face lights up with something neither of them can explain. And, to his profound astonishment, she laughs.

"Very good, Tony," she says, nodding appreciatively at him.

"What?"

"Good job taking initiative." Her eyes glitter. "And my answer is yes."

"I certainly hope the question was, 'I know who killed this Marine,' Agent David."

The two of them stiffen, freeze, at that dry sarcastic drawl: posture straight, senses alert, brain startled and full of fight-or-flight epinephrine.

"Of course, boss!" Tony says at once, his eyes following the progress of an extremely irritated Gibbs striding over to his desk. "Here are the credit reports for Vaughn's boss and his transactions state he was fifty miles away at the time of the murder. He didn't do it."

"But I can't find anything to account for the best friend, Ramsey," Ziva adds. "I think we should pay him another visit."

"Good." Gibbs looks around, brow furrowed with confusion. "Hey, where's Tim?"

And McGee appears with a half-eaten chocolate bar, several wrappers, disheveled hair and a mildly terrified expression. "Here, boss!"

"Tim, take Ziva and check out Ramsey's place," says Gibbs. "Dinozzo, you're with me. We're heading out to the hospital at Quantico."

"Right, boss," says Tony importantly.

"Let's go."

Gibbs gives him that impatient, slightly incredulous eyebrow-raise and full-arm 'come on' gesture; and, somewhat reluctantly, Tony rises to follow him out.

Before he goes, he searches the room for Ziva's eyes and finds them.

Her expression is still sly, still mischievous, but she gives him a barely perceptible nod as he is whisked towards the elevator.

Instantly, he is comforted, and his large, goofy grin is the last visible thing in the elevator. Hers mirrors his as she returns to her computer, her cheeks determinedly redder and warmer than they had been moments ago.

Gibbs, noticing this brief exchange, asks, "What's with the face, Dinozzo?"

Tony hastily rearranges his features and clears his throat.

"Nothing, boss," he says as the elevator descends. "Nothing at all."

* * *

A/N: I feel like I should mention this before I sign out; I was going to put this in the first note, but that one was long and unruly as it was, so I'm putting it here…

I shamelessly stole the new title of this story from the amazing album and song by Sara Bareilles. Relationships are very much like kaleidoscopes – colorful and fragmented, making up a beautiful, unified whole from so many pieces. So there's why I did that.

I hope you liked this, then, and please remember to review when you're done! I'll post the next one whenever the inspiration strikes me.

Until the next time.  
X


	3. Crossroads

A/N: You guys are SO awesome. Seriously. You make me blush and bounce around like a little girl. This isn't my main fandom (yet) but the great character foundation and the epic readers/reviewers (that would be you) are definitely giving my muse the kick in the pants she needs.

Because, you see, my muse is evil. She hates me. She is the laziest, most unproductive creature ever. She has flashes of brilliance, but they are lightning strikes at best – extremely brief. But now she's like, "Hey, Zay, stop doing schoolwork and investing in your future – think about writing instead!" That hasn't happened in a REALLY long time.

So, for the next few weeks at least, I guess you're stuck with me. Can I win your praise three times in a row? Read on and let's find out.

* * *

**III. Crossroads**

Boy, you won't be sleeping  
No sleep tonight  
Do I have to spell it out in black and white?

Girl, you won't be sleeping  
No sleep tonight  
Do I have to spell it out in black and white?

You can't stop this feeling  
You can't run away  
Baby, I'm what's on your mind  
You can't stop this feeling  
There's no escape  
No sleep tonight  
You won't get no sleep tonight

- The Faders, "No Sleep Tonight"

* * *

It turns out to be the best friend, Ramsey.

Ziva and McGee found the damning evidence in his apartment; Gibbs and Tony found the man himself hiding out in one of the patient rooms at the hospital in Quantico. He is quickly arrested and held in custody – another job well done. And they are even out by eleven.

Gibbs disappears like he always seems to do – likely to share the good news with Abby – and leaves McGee, Tony and Ziva upstairs to pack up their belongings and go home. They do so with pleasure, discussing the case with pleasure.

"So the Dinozzo theory of relationships succeeds yet again," Tony announces, grinning.

"But the Dinozzo theory of relationships is that it's always the wife," points out McGee, "and in this case, it was the best friend."

"Come on – they were practically spouses," Tony argues. "I mean, they were roomies and they dated the same girls and they even slept in the same room. Ramsey is as good as the wife."

"I would hardly think splitting the rent would make them spouses, Tony," Ziva remarks sedately.

"This is beyond splitting rent, Ziva," he says with that special snap of emphasis on her name that he always saves, just for her. "They were too close to be roomies. I mean, did you hear Ramsey yelling his head off when we arrested him? 'I only killed him so she couldn't have him?' That's a little too…brotherly…to be brotherly, if you get my drift."

"Well, I suppose that unresolved sexual tension can sometimes get the better of us," Ziva points out casually.

In an instant, Tony's eyes snap to her face, a little jumpy and paranoid, but she happens to be looking down at her bag and doesn't make any other gesture that lets him assume any significance.

"I don't think it was like that," continues McGee, noticing nothing. "They were just really good friends. Can no one be friends anymore without everyone thinking it's something more?"

"Apparently not." Ziva is still not looking up from her bag.

"Whatever." McGee clears his throat, picks up his bag and slings his coat over his shoulder. "So…I'm off. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Ziva repeats, giving him a salute.

McGee smiles but makes his way to the elevators without looking back, without suspecting anything at all. And now it's just Tony and Ziva.

Only now does she make eye contact, her expression alight with impishness. His unsteadiness gilded with a thin layer of bravado seems only to make her happier.

"So…are you ready to go?" she asks with such politeness that he would do well to worry.

"It looks like I am." He gestures around himself. "Shall we?"

"We shall."

Not even bothering to fight back her smile, she falls into step with him out to the elevator. It feels weird to him, being so in tune with her – the sophisticated perfume barely masking the husky scent that is her own, the sounds of her breath in and out, the slight bounce of her hair. The two of them have walked this way many times before, but these new expectations make it awkward.

Ziva presses the button for the elevator and they wait. Thankfully, it doesn't take long to come. The doors open and Tony awkwardly lets her in first. The doors close and they are alone again. In the elevator. Leaving work.

Silence.

The elevator ride he takes every morning suddenly seems to stretch out over an eternity or two, having to share such a small space with such a person. He wonders what he could say in order to make the space between them feel thinner, more comfortable.

She doesn't wonder any such thing. She doesn't like to wonder; she prefers simply doing whatever she's thinking about and seeing how it works out. And right now, she wants to know what will happen if she stays completely silent until he speaks first.

The elevator finally arrives at the ground floor. The two of them step out and Tony takes a deep breath.

"So…I have my car here," he says. "Do you want to take yours and meet me at the coffee shop on Jefferson?"

"My car is at the shop," says Ziva. "I took the train this morning."

"Oh." The word is not disappointed, merely befuddled, a little taken aback. "Okay. So you can just come with me."

"That seems like the logical thing to do," Ziva agrees with a smirk.

"Sure…" Tony clears his throat. "Come on."

He leads the way into the parking garage. His car is parked close. He beep-beeps the device on his key and the car unlocks itself. He gets straight into the driver's seat and does not open her door for her. She notices but says nothing. He reverses out of the parking spot – a little sloppy, but passable – and begins his way out of the garage and onto the road.

He wonders if it would be rude to turn on the radio. While he ponders this, she decides she needs music to thin out the atmosphere a little and pushes the button for the radio. She gets it right; music begins to play. Both breathe a quiet sigh of relief: at least it won't be quiet now when their conversation lapses.

"So…you want to go to the coffee shop on Jefferson?" asks Ziva.

"Yeah," says Tony. "It's the only one that's still open this late."

She nods; this makes sense.

The car approaches a yellow light and Tony decides to brake rather than try to make the light. Ziva snorts derisively at this.

"What?" he asks, annoyed.

"You could have made that," she points out.

"Maybe, but it would have been _risky _and _dangerous_," he says, putting particular emphasis on the adjectives. "You know, bad for you?"

"How could it have been bad?" she argues. "The other side of the light has a second before the light actually changes and an extra second or two, depending on the reaction time of the front driver. You could have easily made it."

Tony cocks his head in a way that he clearly thinks is dignified. "Well, not all of us drive with death wishes, Ziva," he says.

She rolls her eyes. "And not all of us drive like grandmothers, Tony."

Now he is miffed. "You think I drive like a grandmother?"

"You certainly don't drive like a man," she points out.

"What, and you do?"

"I drive better than men," she says with a half-smirk. "I drive like a woman."

He snorts. "That could be considered a sexist remark."

She merely shrugs. "Perhaps."

He turns his head to look at her. "What, it doesn't bother you that you can call me out on being offensive to women because I happen to notice appearances, but you can be offensive to men about their driving without caring?"

"Not particularly," says Ziva. "Women have gone centuries without being able to openly criticize men. You have a lot of lost time to make up."

Tony rolls his eyes. "I believe we call that a double standard in this country. I don't know how you Israelis refer to it, but…"

She smirks. "Well, you _are _a lousy driver. Look, the light turned and you haven't gone yet."

With surprise, he looks forward instead of marveling at her words and sly expression and finds that the light is indeed green. A chorus of angry car horns behind him confirms it. Embarrassed, he puts his foot to the accelerator and makes his turn. She giggles and he reacts.

"Hey, hey, that doesn't mean anything about my driving," he insists. "You distracted me. You are a bad passenger."

"But you are the one at the wheel making the final call," she reminds him. "Your distractedness is not my fault."

He throws her a mutinous sideways glance, but otherwise keeps his eyes on the road, determined to drive flawlessly for the rest of her trip. Ziva merely leans back in her seat, hands behind her head and elbows out like butterfly wings, pleased and completely at ease.

They arrive at the coffee shop in the next ten minutes or so. Tony misses two more yellow lights, but Ziva chooses not to comment again. He gets a spot close to the store and the two of them get out of the car together. Tony beep-beeps the device on his eyes once more and the car locks itself. They go inside but do not hold hands.

The coffee-shop is brightly-lit and painted a trendy deep-blue, with soft rock playing on the speakers. Two solitary teenage employees – a boy and a girl – stand at the counter, talking, and appear slightly taken aback by the sight of customers this late. Tony exchanges glances with Ziva once but steps up importantly to the counter.

"Hey," he says. "Can I have a…small cup almost all the way filled, with two sugars and three and a half milks? And a little bit of whipped cream?"

"Cool," says the girl, pressing the buttons on the little computer. "And you, ma'am?"

"Small cup, plain black," says Ziva promptly.

"Cool. Here or to go?"

"To go," says Ziva.

"Cool. Together or separate?"

"Together," says Tony at once.

"Cool." The girl doesn't even look up. "That will be six forty-nine with tax."

Tony pulls out a credit card and gives it to the girl to swipe. The boy returns with the coffees and sets them on the counter. Ziva takes a sip of hers; Tony reclaims his card and then does the same. But he wrinkles his nose.

"Hey, I think you forgot the half milk," he says. "It's not sweet enough."

The boy looks for a moment as though he'll retort, but doesn't. Without a word, he goes to the back and puts in the milk.

"Sorry, sir," he says mechanically, holding it out.

Tony tastes it and this time smiles. "Perfect," he says.

The boy doesn't react. Tony and Ziva take their coffees and walk out of the shop. They exchange amused grins on the way out and begin to walk down the street, drinking their coffee. The night air is a whip of coolness on their faces. Tony watches her take a swig of hers with a bit of distaste.

"It figures you would have your coffee black," he remarks.

"And it figures you would want yours just so, with two _and a half _milks," Ziva retorts.

"Three and a half," he corrects her.

"Still."

"At least I know what I like," he says.

"I suppose."

She shrugs and takes another sip. He opens his mouth, preparing to respond, but finds that no words come to his disposal. He closes his mouth. They continue to walk. And neither of them says a word.

Tony, at least, finds this too uncomfortable to continue. He clears his throat again, takes another sip of his coffee and loudly says, "So…"

"So what?" asks Ziva.

"I don't know," he says. "Just trying to start a conversation."

"About what?"

"I don't know," he repeats. "Anything. Anything you want."

"Anything _you _want," she says. "You were the one who asked me out for coffee, Tony, and now I am here. Surely there is something you had wanted to say."

He sees her watching him with that look on her face, of complete innocence except that tiniest visible trace of mischief, of testy insolence, that gives her away; and as he watches her watch him, he finds himself already exhausted.

"You always do this," he tells her.

"Do what?"

"That!" he says, pointing at her nose with the index finger of his free hand, making her jump with his fervor. "That…that thing! That thing you do where you purposely try to wrong-foot me by making me seem like I'm the one in charge when you're really calling all the shots."

"But I thought you _were _calling the shots, Tony," she says serenely, sipping her coffee. "_You _asked me to have coffee with you."

"Because you left me your password and that e-mail from Mr. Miami Candy!"

"Mr. Miami what?" She seems highly entertained. "What did you call Brian?"

"It doesn't matter," he says gruffly. "What I'm saying is, you left me your password and that e-mail for a reason, and now you're purposely playing games."

"I am not playing games," she says. "I simply pointed out the obvious fact that you asked me for coffee and not the other way around."

"I asked you because you wanted me to!"

"Did I say that?"

"You left me the password and e-mail."

"So you made an inference. That doesn't translate to fact."

But his stormy expression is such that she relents.

"Relax, Tony," she says, sweetening her irritating smile and laughing. "I'm teasing. You're such an easy target sometimes."

"What, so is the coffee some sort of extension off this teasing? Should I not have paid for yours?"

His tone is light but she can tell he's hurt. She softens.

"Of course it's not," she says. "I want to be here."

"Is that why you left me the password?"

"I left you the password because I wanted you to have the answer to your questions," Ziva tells him with the air of someone choosing her words very carefully.

"You could have just told me," he points out.

"But where would the fun be in that?" She grins again. "Don't you think this is fun, Tony?"

"I think it's confusing," he allows.

"You are so literal!" She gives him a playful nudge.

"Would it kill you to be literal with me?" His eyes are strangely intense. "Come on, Ziva, let's be literal for a minute. Why did you leave me the password?"

"Literally?" She clicks her tongue. "Because…I wanted you to know the truth."

"About the guy in Miami?"

"Yes."

"And you thought it would be more…fun…if you let me find it for myself."

"Yes."

"But then you have to answer a different question," says Tony. "Literally."

"Oh?"

"Why is your password 'Admon'?" he asks.

"Admon," she corrects him, saying with a softer tongue and foreign emphasis.

"Admon," he says impatiently, saying it just as before. "Why is it that?"

She opens her mouth to answer, but he cuts her off. "And I want a literal answer."

Ziva's face is strangely clear and open, facing him straight on even though they are still walking, still heading down Jefferson street with the night unfolding around them.

"I chose it because I liked it," she says simply.

"You liked the name?"

"I liked who I thought of when I saw the name."

He appears astonished. "So…me."

"Yes."

"You like…me?"

"Yes."

"Enough to put my name as your password?"

"Obviously."

"Right." He hesitates. "So…_me_?"

"Yes!" she says loudly. "Even for someone so literal, you can be incredibly dense sometimes."

"Sorry for being baffled," says Tony. "It's just that I'm more accustomed to insults and death threats."

"Would you rather I used one of those, then?"

"No, no." His smile is much more like his usual ones now. "I like this just fine."

She rolls her eyes, but with her smile still in place, and turns her head to face forward again. He copies her and they walk a while, just like this, attempting to digest the previous few minutes over their cups of coffee. Her heart hammers away far harder than she would like; his is eclectic and shallow, disbelieving. There seems to be a spider-web of possibility beginning here and reaching forward to the stars, to infinity, and he can't decide what to make of her strange admission.

So he decides to follow his instinct and be literal.

"Ziva?"

"Yes?"

"I like you too."

She seems to be holding back a laugh. "Thanks, Tony."

He looks around them, at the distance they have walked. "We should probably be heading back now, if we want to go back to the car and head home."

"We should," she agrees.

They turn around and walk back to the car, their steps faster now. There is nothing to say for many minutes as they return to Tony's car. But when they get very close, awkward and a little cold, their coffee only half-drunk, they stop by the light-post and just stare for a moment.

"Should I drive you home?" he asks.

"Buses and trains don't run at this hour," she reminds him. "So unless you want me to walk…"

"I was just checking," he says hastily, "because you could always…you know, come back to my place. If you wanted."

She had been facing the car and not him when he said this, but upon understanding the reason for the awkward delivery, her face whips around and pierces his with a little bit of that raw wildness he used to like in her five years ago.

"To…your place?"

"Only if you wanted," he says, almost as a disclaimer.

She ponders this, really ponders it for a moment.

Then—

"Do you want me to?"

"What?" He appears confused, or distracted, or some mixture of the two.

"Do you want me to come over?"

The question hangs. He doesn't seem to want to answer it.

"Be literal," she warns.

He is strangely vulnerable, cracked open like a premature egg containing a scared baby chick, and waits two beats before responding so quietly,

"Yes."

And all she can do is stand there, at the light-post, in front of his car and in front of his gaze, wondering where to go from there.

* * *

A/N: Yup, I'm evil. I'm leaving it there until I post again. It should hopefully give you some more incentive to review so that I can know what you think and proceed to be inspired to write and resolve this little crossroad we've reached here.

(Actually, the real reason I stopped here was because I was too nervous to continue this onward. I prefer building conflict to resolving it and I'd rather read your opinions on what I have so far before I leap into the wild unknown here. I'm just very insecure like that.)

So...please help me out here and review? Pretty-please with Michael Weatherly on top?


	4. Shining

A/N: Aww. You guys are too sweet. Thanks for taking my mini-challenge of reviewing (I knew Michael Weatherly on top would work – that man is gorgeousssss) and for being honest with me. I appreciate that.

This chapter…will definitely require me to kick the rating up to a mature T. Let's just put it that way. I am a little nervous but very excited.

NOTE: I don't think, in the course of the show, we've ever seen Tony's place, so I'm just going to make it up. If we have seen it before and I got it totally wrong, please go with the flow and don't tell me.

Enjoy!

* * *

**IV. Shining**

She's got you high and you don't even know yet  
She's got you high and you don't even know yet  
The sun's in the sky, it makes for happy endings  
You can't deny you want your happy ending.

She's got you high…

- Mumm-ra, "She's Got You High"

* * *

She bites down hard on her lip and then sips her coffee to give herself more thinking time. But if she's feeling awkward, it's nothing to how mortified he feels, watching her sip her coffee, apparently nonchalant (because she's always been better at hiding her thoughts). He fights to hold composure and she fights to both hold composure and figure out where she wants this to go.

Because it's like Tony said – Ziva calls the shots and not the other way around. The nature of their relationship is such that while he is extremely attracted to her, he is afraid that she will snap his neck in two if he is stupid enough to tell her so.

Besides, their insecurities lie in different places: she trusts few beyond a casual sex-and-small-talk relationship and is therefore hesitant to step forward if she knows she cares, and he has difficulty maintaining the bond once he has leaped in blindly and found that he cares.

Thus, it is up to her, and she opens her mouth to speak.

For a moment, her mouth makes a shape that looks like the beginnings of a no, but then she changes her mind as her tongue begins to move and she ends up saying, "Yes. I would like that."

He blinks.

"Seriously?"

"What, you thought I would say no and spare you?" she asks, a little fierce.

"No," he says, still seemingly wonderstruck. "I mean…kind of. I just…I thought you wouldn't want to."

"Well, I do," she says. "Is that…okay?"

His face lights up with the brightest smile he has worn in a while as he thinks about it. "You know, I have the perfect movie we could watch!" he tells her excitedly. "Jack Nicholson and Danny Lloyd, _The Shining_. A classic, so I'm sure you haven't seen it. Man, Ziva, I'm sure it could even scare _you_."

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, of course," she says. "I'm sure that real-life war zones, murders and psychological nut-jobs will definitely pale in comparison to your…_Shining_."

"Don't be so close-minded," Tony warns. "Half the fun is letting it scare the pants off of you."

"Where did that idiom come from, anyway? Scare the pants off of you?" Ziva ponders aloud, somewhat tangentially, almost to herself. "It seems like such a silly concept, having fear take your pants down. Wouldn't you want to keep them on and protect yourself and at least be warm if you are scared?"

"I don't know; it was probably invented by some guy who made his girlfriend watch a horror movie with him and it scared her so much that she was too scared to sleep without him." He snickers. "Everybody wins."

She rolls her eyes. "Only you could come up with such an explanation on the place."

"The spot," he corrects. "So…do you want to watch?"

"All right, I suppose," she agrees.

"Great!" He is much chirpier at the thought of watching a movie – something familiar, something that makes him happy, something he has done with her before and can do again without the awkwardness that colored this little excursion. He pats the top of the car in a jaunty, little-boy sort of way and says, "Hop in!"

She snorts at his easy joy but complies, slipping into the passenger seat while he slips into the driver's one. He takes a big gulp of coffee (finishing most of it in that one go, she assumes) and puts the car into gear.

The ride back to his place is uneventful within the car. He drives and tells her all kinds of factoids about the influence and background on _The Shining_, pausing only to finish up his coffee, attempting to both fill the air and educate her a little bit, while she half-listens and watches the scenery outside the window. It's mostly unfamiliar; and it hits her then that in five years of working so closely with Tony as his partner, she has never actually been to his place before.

It will be interesting, she muses, seeing where he spends his time, where he splashes his cheerful, flamboyant personality all over the walls. And if she's honest with herself, she's the slightest bit excited, getting to see a little slice of his world. He's already been in her old apartment after all.

They arrive in good time, to an ordinary apartment building that she guesses is about twenty minutes away from NCIS. He parks his car nearby and they walk inside. He takes her upstairs to the fourth floor and opens a plain maroon door with a key from his pocket.

"Here we are," Tony says, throwing the door open with flourish. "Home sweet home."

And Ziva's returning smile is quaint but her curiosity genuine as she steps inside, takes a look around. Tony's apartment is, in fact, exactly what she would imagine it to be: a nice-sized little place with framed movie posters adorning the walls, clothes thrown casually around on the backs of chairs, a kitchen visibly containing beer and junk food. The centerpiece is clearly the living room with the top-of-the-line TV and sound equipment. There are bright lights and a comfortable amount of mess. And it smells like him.

"Nice," she remarks, meandering forward, peeking down the little hallway leading to his bedroom and bathroom and getting a small glimpse of each.

"Thanks." He is much easier now in his natural habitat and answers her cheerfully. Moving towards the kitchen, he asks, "Beer?"

"No thanks," she says politely. "I just had coffee."

"So?" He pops a can open and takes a swig.

"Just…no thank you," she says.

He shrugs and takes another swig. "Suit yourself."

Ziva tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and flops experimentally onto the couch, testing the feel of it, the aesthetic of it. As could be expected of a piece of furniture bought by Anthony Dinozzo, it sports a few faint but suspicious stains and is extremely comfortable. And the scent of him is even stronger here. She crosses one leg on top of the other, sinking deeper into the cushion, and watches him search for the right movie amidst the vast array spanning four bookshelves.

"Aha," he says presently, showing her a colored box titled _The Shining_. "Found it!"

"Lovely."

Tony either doesn't hear or completely ignores the sarcastic edge behind this word as he puts the DVD into his Blu-Ray player.

"Get ready for this, Ziva," he tells her. "This movie is going to blow your mind."

"We'll see about that."

This time he shoots her a Look, but busies himself with putting off every single light in sight, presumably to create the movie-theater ambiance. When he's done, he grabs the remote, presses play, and sits down beside her, sinking into the same cushion as she, his scent almost overwhelming when it's so close to her, seeming to go all the way through her. His weight is warm beside hers. His arm twitches a little, as though he wanted to wrap it around her shoulders but thought better, and the movie starts.

As it turns out, _The Shining _is quite entertaining for a Wednesday night after work. While Ziva herself isn't scared of it, she can see how other people would be, with the supernatural and the mentally psychotic working in tandem. Even though she is sure Tony has seen it a hundred times, he still jumps, still gasps at the right moments, entranced. But she finds she enjoys watching him rather than the movie, the way his expression changes unconsciously with the mood of each scene and the way he cares so obviously and so deeply that it's almost touching.

She finds herself wondering if he's always so emotive when he watches movies with other girls – and, if he is, if any of them take the time to notice.

Around the midway point in the movie, though, Tony's attention changes. She feels him begin to look at her rather than at the events on the screen, trying to search for her reaction. But she has completely missed the narrative progression of the movie by this point and has very little interest in it. She tries her very best to look engrossed – for his sake, to be polite – but she doesn't want to pretend and he can tell.

"So…you're not scared at all, are you?" he asks.

"Well…no," she says, as apologetically as she can muster. "I'm sorry, Tony, it takes a lot to scare me."

"It's fine," he says a little too quickly. "I mean, it's _only _one of the greatest movies of the genre…"

"I'm sorry," she repeats.

"We can put it off, if you want," he suggests. "What movie can I tempt you with?"

He hops off the couch, taking his warmth with him, and stands beside the book case, busying himself with visually going through his collection. "Look, I have more horror…some thrillers…you may like _Wanted_, and you could tell me if the stunts are doable in real life because I don't think they are…I have some romance here, too, but I doubt you'd like any of those…hmmm…"

"There's only one thing I'm interested in right now, Tony," she interrupts him quietly on an impulse, wondering if he remembers.

And when he freezes like he's been electrocuted, the mood suddenly turning tense and raw and somehow very sexual, his eyes glued right back to hers, she finds the recollection in his face and immediately they both know.

"Really?" Despite the laser-like focus of his gaze, the word is delivered as more of a challenge than a question.

She grins with mischief he recognizes.

"Yes."

_The Shining _continues to play; some ghost moans. But he has eyes and ears only for what he thought he just heard, if his senses weren't lying, still watching her intently for signs of jest. He sees none, only that one look she had the first time she met him: the 'do me' look, with the slouch and the smirk and the indescribable expression in her dark eyes.

He was sure he wasn't imagining it then and he is sure he isn't imagining it now.

She rumples her impeccably straightened hair, shaking it out to a more natural state, and he slowly makes his way back to the couch, still watching her, still calculating his next move. Still stricken with fear he can't explain.

He sits down beside her again, his movements remaining slow and deliberate, his features both guarded and utterly open. The smell of him is back in full force and she finds herself aroused – by him, by the way he looks at her, by the way his full pink mouth is slack and vulnerable, ready to taste.

And as Jack Nicholson gulps down some bourbon at the bar in front of a ghost, she leans in and neatly catches his mouth in hers.

This first kiss is hesitant, sweet – everything their very first one five years ago was not. But the second is heavier, headier, generally scarier, than that very first one ever could have been.

Danny Lloyd continues a downward spiral into madness, but they continue obliviously; the second kiss turns into a third, a fourth, a fifth, each one deeper and longer than the last. She finds that they fit together quite perfectly, and he is the first to slip in tongue. Pleased, she parts her lips to let him in and then straddles his lap, swinging one leg over, so that she sits on his lap and his hands squeeze her waist and she is able to run her fingers through his hair, wrap her arms around his neck, with more ease. His hands seem overwhelmed, a little confused, trying to touch her waist and her hair and her shirt and her back and her rear end all at the same time.

She arches her back and her kiss crashes down on him like a warm medium tide washing over his toes; her mouth is sure and clearly experienced. A lesser man would have fallen flat; he, however, takes her challenge and kisses her back with purposeful grit, nipping assertively at her lower lip.

So she plays along for a bit but then changes it up a little, slows it down without any warning, and almost pulls back but not quite. He follows her progress, leaning forward as she leans back, like a puppy led on a string, and she smiles as she comes back to him and kisses him properly again.

She remembers suddenly when she had first returned to NCIS after the Somalia mission and Abby had given her a severe lecture about not trusting Tony. "You're talking about Tony here, our Tony, all soft and goofy on the outside but a total rock on the inside" – that's what she had said. And it stuck with Ziva, popped up spontaneously as she kissed him now, a year later, because while Tony was a rock when she got close enough, he was the softest, politest rock she had ever come in contact with.

The way she kisses him is fierce, a little greedy; but he kisses with pleasure, savoring her energy and cooling some of it off, making her feel wanted instead of taken swiftly.

She might as well admit it to herself: she never expected such sweetness from the womanizer he likes to be in the office everyday. But maybe this is why he keeps scoring – because he has a way of being the kind of caring guy who is supposed to be impossible to find.

They continue to make out through the end of the movie, only resurfacing as the credits roll – a little disheveled, a little confused, but significantly exhilarated. Ziva is still sitting on Tony's lap and Tony's hands are still squeezing the modest curve of Ziva's waist. The look on his face is surprised, if anything; hers, a little murkier. They are quiet for several moments, digesting both the kissing and the end of the movie, before Tony breaks the silence.

"So…what do we do now?" he asks her.

Something about the contrast between the way he kissed her and the way he speaks to her now, so careful and awkward, kicks up her evil side a little bit.

"You know what, Tony?" she says, "I am done playing the awkward question game with you. Do not ask me what I want to do now; tell me what _you_ want to do."

He is a little taken aback by the aggressive edge to her voice.

"Well, all right then," he says coolly, though the same spirit of intensity flickers into existence in his eyes too. "You know that thing you said you were interested in? I'm interested in it too. For real this time."

Her smile is sensual and a little cocky. "Are you?"

"I am." To prove it, he slips his hand up her back and gives the back of her bra a tug.

"Then I hope you've been working out lately, Tony," she purrs, "because you'll need endurance and some…flexibility…if you intend to keep up with me."

"That's welcome news," he says solemnly.

"Really?"

"Mhmm." His eyes glint in the strange dim light. "Because you're not the only one with tricks up her sleeve."

She grins and gives him a sloppy, nuzzling kiss, her nose rubbing against his.

"Prove it," she murmurs.

And judging by the way he tangles his fingers in her long straight hair, making it wild and tangled, and kisses her as if he is drawing something up from deep inside her, and then takes her to his room, he is more than willing to do so.

* * *

A/N: Okay, now before I let you go on here and review, I must tell you this…

I kind of know where I want the next few fic-lets to take this relationship and this is just the beginning. I know that right now it's kind of like, "Whoa there, kinky horizontal naked dance already?" But _don't worry_ – complicated repercussions with work and each other will be dealt with in time. I know you guys aren't going to be too familiar with my style yet, but I'm not the kind of writer who forgets about that stuff; I actually find it the most interesting.

For now, my rationale for this scene is as follows – if you have been as close to Something as Tony and Ziva have been for the past five seasons, and you suddenly took initiative and find this person ready and willing in your living room, you're not exactly going to kick them out because you want to take it slow.

Your endocrine system is a powerful, sly little demon and enjoys letting out the hormones when such a thing occurs. So I'm letting nature take its course before reality comes back into play. Because it also makes the reality more interesting, when you just succumb to your desires in the moment thanks to aforementioned hormones and now have to deal with what comes next.

Next fic-let will be up in a day or two, I hope.

Now please review on your way out? You guys were great about that last time; keep it up!


	5. Defenseless

A/N: Well, I'll be damned. You guys are still interested. Congratulations – I am officially baffled. But very pleasantly so.

Now this fic-let. Morning after. You knew it was coming. I wanted it to be concise (i.e. short – under a thousand words – and sharp) but I ended up with 1300 words of less-effective awkwardness. But, as Lily Allen has said in a song on her first album, "Oh well, I mustn't grumble, I suppose that's just the way the cookie crumbles."

So…cheers and enjoy!

* * *

**V. Defenseless**

Would you please get our from under my skin?  
'Cause I can't begin this yet  
And I don't know what my intentions are  
They're speaking in a different tongue  
And deep inside, I'm not as tough as I seem  
But I won't let you know  
Until it's right, I'm gonna stay my distance  
And you should go

- Rachel Yamagata, "Under My Skin"

* * *

She wakes up confused.

It's hard to hide from yourself in the morning, when your defenses haven't had time to kick in and weak sunlight penetrates the tender dark environment under your eyelids, making you cringe.

And in her first moments of consciousness, she feels nothing but confusion.

Different blanket, different sheets. Different room, as her eyes re-focus themselves. Different pillow – a little too flat for her tastes, smelling unfamiliar. Different hair, because she could have sworn it was straight last time she checked and now it's untamed and crazy.

And, of course, different company.

The confusion bypasses recognition and goes straight to panic as she realizes the reason for the warm weight beside her. It's a person – a man. A man named Tony. Well, Anthony, but always Tony to her. She twitches her wrist instinctively for her gun, but finds, to her shock, that it isn't there.

Though she doesn't usually have her gun when company is over, disbelief reverberates through her anyway at the thought of being defenseless, without her gun, for the entire night.

She blinks and the fog clears. She is awake now, and definitely needs to figure out what she is doing here.

Without thinking, she sits up, but she moved too fast and wakes him with a jolt. His face crinkles inward and he takes inhales sharply. His arm had been around her shoulder but now falls to the bed with a quiet thud. Her shoulder is cold and her eyes are on his as he tries, with less success than she, to wake up.

"Good morning," he mumbles, squinting at the clock and then at her.

"Good morning," she returns rather curtly.

He catches this and pauses.

"Um…are you okay?"

Ziva nods, but they both know she's lying.

"I've never been up so late on a workday," she remarks, glancing at the clock as well. "I usually do pilates."

"That explains it – pilates," he groans, rubbing his eyes and sitting up as well. "You weren't kidding about the endurance; I'm still sore."

"Pretty good work-out, don't you think?" Her face brightens with mischief. "I warned you, Tony."

He grunts and rubs his eyes again. Her sly smirk fades and she exhales slowly.

"So…we should probably get ready for work," she says.

He takes another look at the clock. "There wouldn't be enough time for you to go home and then go back to work," he says. "You can use my shower, if you want."

"I think I'll do that."

"Go ahead." He gestures to the little room across the hall, barely visible from here. "I think I'll have a bit of a snooze while you're in there."

She gives him a small, brief smile and proceeds to get out of bed. Courteously, he averts his eyes while she makes her way out of the room; her nakedness, blurry and luminous and so long yearned for in the dim hours of the night, sears them both in the light of day. She is even a little embarrassed as she turns on the water and steps into the shower, because only now, standing in his unfamiliar bathroom, surrounded by his shaving cream and his razors and his shampoo and his life, does she realize what they have done.

It's perfectly acceptable to feel sexually curious about the people you work with. After working together so long, having to rely on each other, facing life or death together, it's natural to wonder what could happen next, if life allowed it.

But it's only perfectly acceptable if you don't act on it – and now they have broken that cardinal rule and had sex. Lots of sex. And everything will be different now, every word, every look, every gesture, because of it.

Ziva showers quickly without washing her hair and searches Tony's tiny linen closet for something to cover herself with. It seems that Tony invested his linen money in movies, though, because there are none besides his here, and somehow she would rather not touch his towel, even if she has touched every part of him very recently. So she contents herself with an old baggy t-shirt of his that lies with the rest of his night clothes and pulls it on over her head. It smells and feels too much like him.

She returns to Tony's room, where Tony is still clearly awake, staring at the ceiling, expression faraway and a little vulnerable, a little indecipherable. But the moment is short-lived: he senses her presence and turns to behold the sight of her. He seems surprised by the t-shirt.

"Is that what you're wearing to work?" he asks.

"Of course not," she says, snatching up her clothes from the floor. "It's what I'm wearing for the next minute and a half before I wear my own clothes."

"Right."

She retires back to the bathroom to change and leaves him to his thoughts. And admittedly, he has many of them, and they whiz around his head like electrons around its nucleus, full of dangerous energy. Though he lies stagnant, his mind is alive with possibility.

The fact of the matter is that last night weighs heavy on him – not only because of the muscle damage sustained, but because of what it could mean for them in the future. For now, she is acting as he would expect her to: almost natural, almost as if nothing happened last night, as if she hadn't kissed him, or took him for several joy-rides, or made him want her so much that it drove him half-crazy, or told him however implicitly that he wasn't the only one who wanted these things.

But he can't match her determined flippancy. He doesn't know how. He always calls back for a second date – even if the first was meant to be a one-night-stand. He is just that type of person.

She returns to the room now fully clothed, looking like she did yesterday when she sat innocently at her desk and he didn't know what the inside of her mouth tasted like. He clears his throat.

"Do you want breakfast?" he asks.

"I'll get some on my way," she says with unnecessary force. "I need to catch a train."

He shrugs, a little hurt, because they both know the station is several miles from here and she doesn't have any form of transportation beyond that of her two legs. But somehow, it doesn't feel right pointing this out, so he lets it go.

"Okay. I'll see you at work?"

"I will…see you at work," she repeats, smiling tightly, awkwardly. "Good-bye."

"Bye."

She turns to leave and almost does, but doubles back.

"Hey, Tony?"

"Yeah?" He lifts his head up to get a better look at her.

"Thanks for…everything."

Her face softens; something in his gut follows suit.

"Anytime," he says, and means it.

She senses that in him and seems to close off behind the eyes. He hopes it's a trick of light, a trick of his paranoid imagination, but he can't be sure.

"Good-bye."

She leaves for real. The door to his room closes behind her. And he is still bare under the covers, gaze lingering where her hair had just been, eyes soft and with less defense propping him up than she's ever had without her gun.

* * *

A/N: I am so on a roll with these one-shots. I mean, I know I should feel worse, giving you these largely unedited, unrevised first drafts and then expecting you to like them, but somehow it feels better to do it like that. More spontaneous. Maybe not as artistically sound, but more evocative of life than if I'd taken six months and written a whole bunch without sharing a word.

Anyway. I hope you liked this. And I hope you review. I know I always ask you to do that, but I so love it when you do. I read and reread your comments (even if I don't always reply to them) and it keeps me going. You have no idea.

Next fic-let will be very very short but hopefully cute/funny. It features Gibbs! I want to post it in two days, because tomorrow I will have a social life and therefore no time to sit around on my laptop. Yay social lives!

Okay, okay, done rambling. Please review and I will talk to you again soon!


	6. Rule 12

A/N: Now, before I ever dreamed I'd actually write for NCIS, I always wondered if someone had written the following story. Since I'm kind of an NCIS-fan-fic virgin still, I don't know if anyone has; but in any case, I knew I had to put my own spin on it.

It's short. I know. But it's fun.

Enjoy. And thanks again for sticking with me here; I appreciate it more than you know.

* * *

**VI. Rule 12**

Kate:"Not my style, Tony. I would just shoot you."  
Gibbs:"That would be the reason for rule number twelve."  
Kate: "Rule twelve?"  
Gibbs: "Never date a co-worker."

1.15: Enigma

* * *

He knows it the moment they walk into the office.

He sits perched on his computer chair, though he has a paper notebook open on his lap, and sees everything unfold in front of him like a conveniently labeled map of the world.

The way Ziva keeps a certain physical space between her body and Tony's; the way the creases near Tony's eyes and mouth are strained as he smiles; the way Ziva tried to hide that she is wearing the same clothes as yesterday by tucking in her shirt and folding up the ends of her pants; the way both of them look determined, a little mussed, as though they both took very thorough showers.

Ziva is usually good at pretending, but Gibbs knows her too well now; he can see the way she's already shut down even as she converses, the way she does when things hit her close. And Tony has always been an open book, one Gibbs can read with his eyes closed: his jaw is too tight, his easy laughter too forced, and there is a guilty secret weighing down his irises that hasn't been there in a very long time.

McGee doesn't notice as he cheerily bids them good-morning, but Gibbs does. He always does.

He tells them to grab their gear because they're heading out to Quantico, and allows thirty seconds for the usual scramble, but gets to the elevator before any of them.

Though Tony lags behind, Gibbs catches his eye in a way that tells Ziva and McGee to back off, take the elevator that comes back. Surprised, and a little breathless, Tony steps inside.

"Hey, Dinozzo?"

"Yes, boss?"

Gibbs clears his throat significantly. "Rule number twelve," he says. "That's all I'm going to say."

Tony turns bright red.

* * *

A/N: Just because it's short, doesn't mean you review any less. Hop to it!


	7. Elliptical Patterns

A/N: Over a 100 reviews! Over 7,000 views! A current total of 30 favorites and 60 alerts! A lot of seemingly happy readers! All this over 6 little one-shots. I am surprised and grateful and thrilled and touched. Thanks, guys. For real. I know it's repetitive to keep saying that, but it's so true. This insecure little novice is blown away.

It's a lot of pressure now, because I can practically feel your expectations rising, but I am willing to take that challenge and bravely continue forth.

Here is your next installment. I hope you like it. Cheers!

* * *

**VII. ****Elliptical Patterns**

Counting all different ideas drifting away  
Past and present, they don't matter, now the future's sorted out  
Watch her moving in elliptical patterns  
Think it's not what you say, what you say is way too complicated  
For a minute thought I couldn't tell how to fall out

- Phoenix, "1901"

* * *

After the first time, everything you do comes back to the sex.

It takes the relationship over. It reduces the other person's personality and complexities down to that one night, the dark and the words and the kisses and the strange exoticness of nudity, the way she was his and he was hers and nobody had to pretend this wasn't what they wanted. Memory distorts and reality disfigures, but the core of it – the catharsis – stays rooted deep.

Every time he sees her, he sees the girl with wild hair and wild eyes and limbs tangled up in his like telephone wire.

And every time she sees him, she sees the boy with soft eyes and gentle hands and wry humor that is completely eclipsed by the sweetness he possesses in surplus.

Working with Ziva is different now that Tony knows another side of her. It was hard enough after they went undercover that first time, having to shake off the image of her nakedness, but this time was voluntary and therefore a lot harder to clear. He doesn't have to wonder anymore if she wants him, because she's confirmed for him that she does. And, somehow, having this question answered raises so many more that it feels as though he is back before the beginning.

For Ziva, it is much the same but also different. She finds it's difficult to take Tony seriously, to define him as she used to. Every time he teases McGee, she sees his eyes smolder at the height of climax. Every time he glares at someone, she remembers how softly he said her name when he kissed her. Every time he congratulates himself on what a stud he is, she feels his mouth grazing over her neck, under her hair, with the tenderness of a man with ten times his maturity.

The new case continues as usual, their lives progressing into the future, but both their heads live in last night, in the realm of what happened and what could happen later.

Somehow, it's as if life is distorted, dream-like, not quite real. What used to be easy and natural is now fraught with danger, a mine-field ready to explode at the slightest touch. This isn't the way things have been; this isn't the way things should be.

How do you go back from something like sober, voluntary sex on a work night? How do you go forward? How do you say everything without saying anything? Ziva is well accustomed to shoving her feelings to the bottom drawer and living on, but Tony is stumped; he would infinitely prefer something simple, concrete, like recreating the Mona Lisa, or designing a city, or walking on water, to dealing with this.

The team heads out to Quantico as ordered and evaluates the crime scene, collecting evidence for Abby. McGee, finally picking up on the unnatural quiet as the three photograph, bag and tag, chooses to initiate conversation.

"So," he says a little too loud, "how are you guys? How was your night?"

"Good," says Tony a little too fast. "And yours, McProbie?"

"Good," echoes McGee.

"What'd you do, troll the 'net for an Elf Queen?"

"No," McGee says with a darkened look on his face. "For your information, I was writing."

"Writing? About us?"

McGee clears his throat delicately. "No."

"It's all right if you were," Ziva inserts, snapping a final picture of the corpse. "What did Tony and I do last night in your new book?"

"I told you, I wasn't writing about you," insists McGee, though his ears go red.

"Right." Ziva grins.

"Well, enough about me," he says. "What did you do, Tony? Sat around and watched a movie all by yourself?"

"As a matter of fact, I did watch a movie, but not by myself." Tony doesn't dare look at Ziva as he says this. "I had a date last night."

"A date?" McGee cocks an eyebrow. "You didn't mention that."

"It was kind of spontaneous," Tony explains. "Just saw her and asked her out, watched _The Shining _with her."

"Did you have sex with her?"

Tony grins a grin of bravado, one he certainly didn't have last night when he finally took her and she moaned in his ear and caught one look at his face before surrendering to his shoulder.

"Of course I did," he says. "And it was _hot_."

"Yeah?"

"You wouldn't believe the things this girl can do on a mattress, Mc-Virgin," says Tony proudly. "I will have to personally thank her Pilates instructor."

"How old was she?"

"Twenty-eight."

"Hot?"

"Very."

McGee nods, pondering this, and Ziva silently fumes. She could kill him. She _would _kill him, if it weren't for the fact that she was trying to renounce the kill-on-a-passionate-moment's-notice life. But now she has to find more creative means to relieve her irritation. She clicks her tongue and turns to face Tony, eyes flashing danger.

"You're lucky, Tony, because I had a date last night as well," she says, "and it was disappointing."

"Really?" Though his tone says he's jesting, the rest of him is genuinely curious, wondering how she will react to his insolence.

"Yes," she says. "Obsessed with movies and the sound of his own voice – it was like being on a date with you. He was _so _irritating – and the sex was awful."

"Awful?" McGee laughs. "Really?"

"It's beyond laughter, McGee," she tells him, so solemnly that it takes both boys aback. "I am never seeing him again."

"That's pretty severe," McGee remarks, still chuckling. "Was he that bad?"

"He was," she confirms serenely. "Very clingy; all talk and no play."

As expected and hoped for, Tony stiffens ever so slightly at this, mildly paralyzed by insecurity. McGee arches an eyebrow, searching her expression for more detail. He gets none and is forced to accept her cold, straight-faced analysis for what it is.

"Poor guy," McGee remarks. "Tell him that and he'll doubt his manhood for the rest of his life."

Her smile is both pleased and utterly mischievous; McGee moves on to dust for fingerprints and Tony gives her a steely sort of smile before moving to a different part of the room to do the same.

Her impulse for petty revenge thus satiated, she takes the NCIS camera and snaps a picture of what seems to be the piece of evidence in Tony's hands but is really just a picture of Tony, with his stance tense but his eyes as soft as they never are, as soft as she knew them last night, when he was hers and she was his and this little interplay would not have been necessary.

* * *

It takes Tony until the evening, when the office is leaving and Gibbs finally allows them to go home, to corner Ziva without any witnesses.

She packs up her things at her desk. If he didn't know any better, he would think she looks innocent, focused, her hair a little mussed from being loose in the wind today and her cheeks a pleasant pink.

But he does know better and approaches her desk with a purposeful stride. She looks up when she sees him coming; her face gives nothing away.

"Hello, Tony," she says, smooth like velvet.

"Hey there, Ziva," he replies, equally smooth, though with flourish when he gets to her name. "So…that date of yours."

"What about him?"

If she had been talking about anyone – _anyone _– but him this afternoon, he would have found her answering tone glib and extremely charming.

As it is, he finds it irritating.

"Did you mean what you said?" he asks.

"When I said he was clingy, underwhelming and not a viable candidate for a second date?" Ziva inquires.

"Yes, when you said _that_."

She ponders. "Hmmm…that's a tough one…"

"Come on, Ziva." His voice really doesn't change that much, but the mood shifts and she knows he isn't playing around.

"All right, all right." She smiles, humor lightening the lines in her face that had been like canyons this morning. "I was joking. I said those things because I didn't like the way you objectified me to McGee."

"Seriously? _That's _why?" Tony is actually astonished.

"What, am I supposed to take pleasure in being the latest hot twenty-eight-year-old Pilates student you managed to hit up?" she retorts, perhaps a little more defensively than she should have.

"I was doing it for the Probie's sake," Tony explains complacently. "You know I don't think of you that way at all."

"You had very little trouble when you had to do it for 'the Probie's sake,'" she shoots back, putting finger quotes on the last three words.

"I don't think you should be upset about this," Tony tells her rather frankly. "I mean, I couldn't exactly tell him I'd had the kind of night I did with you."

"What kind of night was it to you, exactly?" An edge of curio creeps into her question.

Now he has to put on his best poker face, making sure to contain all visible bits of emotion carefully behind boundary lines.

"It was a good night for _me_, Ziva," he says. "But you were the one who claimed disappointment in front of the Probie, so I suppose we should go back to the original question and ask if you meant what you said about me being lousy in bed."

She holds his poker face steady for a moment with her own impeccable one, until she cracks the armor and smiles a real smile again.

"Of course I didn't mean it," she says. "I happen to think last night went…well."

"Well?" He isn't sure he heard her correctly.

"Well," she says, confirming that he did in fact hear her correctly. "And…if you wanted…we could theoretically do it again."

"Again?" Now he's positive he heard her wrong. She couldn't have said the word 'again.' Not in this context. She wouldn't have. But…would she have?

Her smile widens.

"Again."

She would have.

He blinks.

"Theoretically, I suppose we could," he says, swallowing thickly.

"We don't have to if you don't want to," she reminds him.

He opens his mouth to give an intelligent response to this, but the one in his head evaporates and a new one spits itself out before he has time to consider its merit.

"My place or yours?"

He says it too fast with his face too red, but her face shines, comes alive with something he can't explain.

"Yours," she says.

Now her eyes are expectant. With a jolt, he realizes that she means now. And, with another jolt, he realizes that she's already aroused and he's well on his way there, and it's already tonight and they're both willing, ready to go.

"My car is parked outside."

The words come out more breathlessly than he intended, but it suits her just fine; a wicked twinkle shines.

"Perfect," she says.

And with more speed and less dialogue, the two of them leave the office, go into the elevator, walk through the parking garage, get into Tony's car, and drive twenty miles over the speed limit until they reach Tony's place, where he opens the door and puts his hands on her waist and she kisses him and he fumbles with the bra and it's easier this time and they fall back on the bed, clothes coming off, shoes slipping off, reason shutting off, all the awkwardness out of the way so the glory of this, of kissing, of necessity and wonder and awe, can come again and begin again and last again until the morning sun vanquishes it like a fleeting evening ghost.

* * *

A/N: Okay, so in case you haven't noticed, this is becoming less of an open-ended multi-chapter fic and more of a structured fic with chapters of varying lengths.

That's okay, though, because my idea document is growing and I have a clearer idea everyday of where I want to take this. The only thing is, what I want will take some time to build and I'm not the kind of girl to skate over the development just because there's stuff I want to get to later. So when I post, it'll feel like it does for Tony and Ziva – a little slow, a little awkward, still trying to develop a plan of attack.

_This is intentional_. I want it to feel that way. I want to give you guys a chance to feel around this intriguing relationship the way it would be in real life, having to live through every painful second instead of artfully skipping around like they do when you can edit the scenes around. Because I feel like that's the only way to really enjoy it – to live it properly.

Now, the rant is temporarily over. It's almost 2:30 AM and I need to sleep. So I hope you enjoyed this bit, and I hope you will review, and I hope I will post again soon! Let's see how these three things go; at the very least, you can let me know about the first two.

Cheers!


	8. Puppet Master

A/N: You guys are awesome and fantabulous and far too good to me. I'm going to say that at the beginning of every chapter, so you're going to get tired of me saying it, but you really are. And it keeps me focused, obsessive and on my toes. Thanks for that.

This morning I started the impossible – an outline. Gasp! That means I'm getting pretty into it and the ideas are flowing to the point where I need to actually organize them. It's crazy. I still don't know every twist and turn this story will take, but know that it'll go on for a lot longer before I call it quits.

Right. I believe that's it for now. Have fun out there. Cheers!

* * *

**VIII. Puppet Master**

Doing all I can do just to be close to you.  
Every time that we meet, I skip a heartbeat.  
Always up for a laugh, she's a pain in the arse.  
Every time that we meet, I skip a heartbeat.

Give me an evening, or give me a night.  
I'll show you the time of your life.  
I'll walk you home safe from the dark.  
I'll give you my jacket; I'll give you my heart.

But she won't come dancing tonight  
Am I alone?  
It tears me apart

- Scouting for Girls, "Heartbeat"

* * *

Tony awakens sprawled in his bed to his alarm clock like he does every morning and gets ready for work like he does every morning and makes himself a slightly burned toast for breakfast like he does every morning. But it's not until he's in the process of spreading jelly on his slightly burned toast that he remembers why this really isn't like every other morning:

He woke up in sheets not solely warmed by him, his arm curled around a pillow that is flat and cool and uninhabited, because Ziva left earlier that morning, probably used his shower and let him wake up alone.

He chews on this piece of solid truth while he chews on his toast and wonders how he feels about that – about Ziva and her little disappearing act this morning. To his surprise, he finds that he is blank, clear of thought and emotion. And it takes him nearly to the end of his toast that beneath this initial numb layer, he is deeply offended.

Yes, offended, because she has been here twice now and both times she's scampered, the second time more effective than the first. If she comes over again, will she have the art of leaving down to a science? Does he even want her to come over again?

The fact that he is offended – that he is unhappy when she didn't stay – suggests that maybe he does want her over. But the fact that she did, in fact, leave, makes this sentiment problematic because Ziva is an impulse-driven person and if she had wanted to stay, she would have. Which means she actively made the decision to stay away from him; which means that something doesn't add up here because she had definitely wanted to stay last night.

So why come? Why leave? Why stay all night if they are just going to have breakfast alone, like they have every day of their working lives together? What have they gained from this? Despite the fact that the obvious answer here is sex, he finds it doesn't satisfy the needs of the question.

But his breakfast is over now and he is done with his own rhetorical questions. It's time for work, time to delve into other people's lives, and answer their rhetorical questions.

Because that's what he does best. Because the day has broken and thinking hurts. Hurts much more than it should.

* * *

His confidence much renewed since the morning, Tony saunters – nearly struts – into the office, a bright smile adorning his face like tinsel on the Christmas tree. And the first sight his vision feasts upon when he walks towards his desk is that of McGee and Ziva laughing over cups of coffee at Ziva's desk.

He cannot pretend he isn't baffled, so he drops his things down on his desk and approaches them, his cheerfulness slightly eclipsed by confusion.

"Hello, probies," he greets them, "what's going on over here?"

"Coffee," explains Ziva, a smirk playing on her lips. "I stopped for some on the way to work and happened to bump into McGee while I was there."

"And you haven't un-bumped into him yet?" Tony pulls a face. "Sorry about that."

McGee pulls a face of his own; Ziva holds her cool.

"It's called a conversation, Tony," she says placidly. "We started one at the coffee shop and did not finish it before we left. So we continued it here."

"Funny," says Tony without thinking, "in my experience, conversation always seemed to come second to you."

"Second to what?" McGee's interest is instantly piqued.

"To murder," Ziva answers swiftly, flashing Tony a look suggesting just this.

Tony merely smirks.

"If you say so." He cruises back to his desk and presses the power button on his computer. "So, McProbie, is Gibbs in yet? Because I'm thinking of playing a little Solitaire until he comes but I want to make sure he doesn't just walk in on me and—"

"And ask why you're playing card games on the job, Dinozzo?"

McGee's mouth is open, his tongue poised to make the sounds of words, but Gibbs gets there first, his hand sailing forward and slapping the back of Tony's head on his way to his desk. Ziva snickers aloud; Tony stiffens, from pain and embarrassment.

"Of course, boss," he says weakly. "What was I thinking?"

"Sometimes, I feel you think nothing at all." Gibbs shoots him a withering look. "Now grab your gear – we have a dead Marine in downtown DC."

"On it, boss," says McGee, obeying.

Ziva merely nods as she obeys.

And Tony shoots a look of his own at Gibbs as he, too, obeys and follows the pack to the elevator.

* * *

The crime scene is fairly standard – Marine, twenty-three, last name Ferguson, unmarried, preliminary cause of death determined to be a stabbing behind a recycling bin on 24th Street. The team processes the evidence and packs up the body and prepares to return to NCIS for analysis. Gibbs happens to throw the keys in Ziva's direction this time, resulting in the four of them slipping and sliding all over the seats as Ziva wove dangerously through traffic. Tony and McGee looked genuinely green by the time they reached the office.

"Please, Ziva – never drive back again," McGee pleads, semi-unconsciously rubbing his nauseous stomach.

"You are both wimps," Ziva announces. "We made excellent time."

"That we did, Agent David," inserts Gibbs with a satisfied grin on his face, typically unscathed. "Good job."

"Thank you." Ziva swells some with pride. Gibbs, still smirking, walks out in front of her and makes his familiar way down to the coffee machine on the first floor, leaving his three team members to return to the office and begin working without him.

The moment he is gone, Tony joins in McGee's complaints and the two of them wax lyrical about the atrocity that is Ziva's driving for much of the afternoon. She lets it go for a few hours, but when McGee leaves off and Tony is still making the inevitable cracks – as he would have done and often has done every time before – she wonders aloud whether she should test out the old knives, toss them around a little, see if they still work. And he is quiet after that, because she seems touchy now that it's just the two of them.

Apparently, it's only okay to tease her when McGee joins in; otherwise, Tony must keep his mouth shut and let her do her thing, because she can look like a snake sometimes, primed and ready to strike, and the raw violence she is willing to call upon to keep him away from her scares him significantly.

So he works and she works and McGee works, all in silence.

Gibbs returns soon enough after the coffee break and the three are drilled on their theories. With Gibbs back in the room, Ziva is back to her composed self, hair tied back neatly, rattling off her theory about Ferguson's ex-girlfriend, Ava, stabbing him because of the nasty rumor he spread around about her. Tony, for once, agrees with her – it agrees tangentially with his Dinozzo theory of relationships – and Gibbs orders both Tony and Ziva to check out Ava's house.

Tony drives this time, after some negotiating, and they make it to Ava's home without much incident or much conversation. The near-silent air in the car was thicker than cold custard but thins out considerably at the prospect of work, as they troop up Ava's lawn and arrive at her door.

"Open up, NCIS," Ziva shouts, knocking loudly.

Fifteen seconds.

No movement. No answer.

"This is NCIS, Miss Beauregard, and we'll need you to open this door," Tony tries.

Thirty seconds more.

No movement. No answer.

Time to assume the worst.

Eyes locking fierce and fast, the two pull out their guns in synch. Ziva counts to three and gives Tony the nod; she kicks down the door, they hold their guns up, and she calls out, "NCIS! Show yourself!"

Nobody is here – no corpse, no breathing person willing to strike with a vengeance. The house is empty. Ziva relaxes.

"You take the kitchen, I'll take the living room," she says. "Collect anything that looks relevant."

"Gotcha." He ambles good-naturedly into the kitchen. "Hey, you don't mind if I grab a snack while I'm here, do you?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Tony." He can practically hear the disgust in her voice, on her face. "Do your job."

"It was a simple question," he defends himself as he raids the fridge.

Fortunately for her, there is nothing of interest in there, so he resumes searching Ava's kitchen drawers and cupboards for something illuminating about Ava Beauregard. He can hear Ziva doing the same in the living room, carefully sifting through the magazines and envelopes thrown all over the coffee table and the floor.

To be frank, Ava's kitchen is boring and there is nothing of interest to search for here. Tony does a quick job, just to make sure, but his first instinct was right – there is nothing here – and all the action is in the living room where Ziva is. When he comes out of the kitchen to tell her so, he notices her back is facing him; and when he stands in the doorway for a few seconds, waiting for her attention, he notices that her back is probably going to stay facing him unless he does something to make her act otherwise. He clears his throat.

"Kitchen's clean," he says.

Only now does she turn to look at him.

"Good," she says. "Go check the bedroom."

"Are you done here?"

"Almost. I will join you when I am."

"Okay."

He walks in the direction of the bedroom without looking back and leaves Ziva on her own in the living room. She doesn't dare breathe the sigh of relief hiding in her throat, in the off chance that he hears it. The collection of evidence goes a lot faster while they don't talk – at least, it does for Tony. He is done much faster than either of them had hoped he would be and within minutes, he is back in the living room, holding his assortment of items, watching Ziva get on her knees and check under the sofa.

When it turns out to be clear, she stands and dumps her own assortment of items into his hands.

"Ready to go?" she asks.

And he is about to say yes, and then ask her—hesitantly—if she wants to go to dinner with him tonight and then maybe spend the night, maybe even stay over the whole morning; the words formulate somewhere deep and unconscious within him and swell in his mouth and almost spill out; but then he catches that look on her face, the startlingly open one that spells out her wariness like words stamped across her forehead, that clearly means she just doesn't want to talk right now, particularly not about this; and he swallows the words down and fakes a smile and starts the car and takes her back to the office.

And even though he's the one at the wheel and he doesn't pay much attention to the groans she makes when he lets a yellow light go, he is the puppet to her marionette, and he keeps his mouth shut the entire way back – about the important things anyway.

Because that's what she wants. Because it's time to go back to work and the day is fading and thinking hurts. Hurts much more than it should.

* * *

A/N: Yeah, yeah, I know – this chapter has been a lot of Manipulative Ziva and Wimpy Tony and it feels a little off-kilter characterization-wise. But you know what? For this beginning bit, I feel like that's the way it should go. It'll change as time goes on – Ziva will soften and Tony will take the upper hand once in a while – but for now, please be patient with these poor characters and with me, because while I am dying to tell you more about what I'm planning, the smarter 'writer lady' within me knows that if I just come out and tell you, it loses impact.

But what I _can_ tell you is that in Chapter 12, appropriately titled "Difficult Questions," I will be exploring this issue with greater depth. So stay tuned – and please remember to review on your way out! Thanks!


	9. Frustrated

A/N: I have a day off from school, so I managed to get this chapter finished up earlier than planned. Yay!

But this chapter, it's warning time! Ahem…

_**Warning: This chapter contains some explicit references to sex. I will not, however, be kicking up the general rating at this time because I'm warning you now. I feel that the sex here is used artistically, to explore intimacy issues rather than indulge shock value, but if you are uncomfortable with it, **__**please DO NOT READ THIS CHAPTER**__**.**_

And now that that's taken care of, I genuinely hope you like this chapter. I don't often write sex scenes, mostly because they can be really awkward and it's hard sometimes to write both the physical and the meaningful together. But with this chapter, it seemed to fit and flow really well, so I tried it out.

Better keep a fan on you though; it gets a little hot in there.

Cheers!

* * *

**IV. Frustrated**

You stir up my natural emotions  
And make me feel like dirt and I'm hurt  
And if I start a commotion  
I only end up losing you  
What's worse?

- The Stiff Dylans, "Ever Fallen in Love"

* * *

Heat.

So much heat; too much heat; unbearable heat. The sheets are on fire and he is on fire and there is too much fire here, too much to withstand.

He arches his back upward, tries to find cool air beneath his back, but it's arid like the desert there, and her weight waits to meet him on top. He is sweating from friction, from exhiliration, from want, and his sweat mingles with hers, only skin between them, the blanket open and discarded around them like an open flower.

His hands; her neck; far too much heat.

He pants against her jaw, giving her sloppy open-mouthed kisses wherever he finds bone and flesh. She moans exquisitely from somewhere within his hair and the penetration is welcome, more than welcome, because it's another layer of sensation to add to the symphony.

Rhythm is everything, everything. The erratic arrhythmias currently terrorizing their hearts, somehow in synch; the rhythm of him moving freely inside of her; the sharp and steady breaths they share in the other's ear, like secrets; how he ravages her and she ravages him and they are both equal here, drowning in hormones and intrigue.

"Higher…"

Her breath is raspy, barely a whisper, but he understands her intuitively and obliges, burrowing his head into her neck. She straddles him with her legs and wraps herself around him like a spider enveloping its next meal and he lets her, because he's high on this and on her and everything about what they're doing.

He rises with her and they reach the climax together, as though climbing a mountain with hands intertwined, embracing at the top. She cries out, but tonight – for the first time since they started this trist last week – she cries out his name. In the midst of the stagnant silence around them, it's even a little romantic.

"Tony…Tony…"

And he wants to answer, but he can't, he can't, because it's too much for him and she always gets rough at this point in the cycle, as though she can't bear finishing on a light note. She moans in catharsis and he disappears between her breasts, clutching her on top of him, savoring her softness, her realness.

And then she sits up, pulls him up to a sitting position with her, and then pulls him back on top of her, letting his mouth crash down on hers, smushing her soft lips against the hard, unyielding surface of her teeth, cutting off her oxygen supply, his hands tangled deep in the roots of her hair, so close that she almost can't take it. Almost.

He goes in again and she rocks from beneath him, waiting for it; she almost bites his tongue with fervor and he feels himself rising again, even though he's already been there. If it's physiologically possible, he doesn't know, but it certainly feels like it. She greedily ravages him again and he is helpless to her, even if he's on top this time, because she always calls the shots; the pleasure, however much of it is his, is mostly hers. And honestly, in this moment, that suits him just fine.

Breathless, she falls back, her hair loose and free around her head like a coat of little dark sunflower petals put together, and breathless, he rests on top of her, chin on her chest, eyes so close to her that they are two deeply blue tunnels leading to the stars. And it's moments like these when the real intimacy of this, of what they have done, dawns on them like an afterthought and changes the way they look at each other.

She is wild; he is sweet. They are back to the roles that their cores hold dearest and pause.

Through the handful of nights they have slept together, this has been the pattern – rough and passionate to begin with, a brief reprieve and then another round, just one more, before dropping off to sleep. Usually, it is she who likes to initiates the mood and the speed for the next one, so he waits now for her to do exactly this.

She doesn't wait long. Only a few seconds, maybe a minute, her chest rising and falling a little faster than average. And then that heat, that fire, ignites back in her black eyes, a beacon in the dark, and her slack hands tauten again, ready to grab him. Her energy is infectious; it's in him too, in him and all over him, but for him at least it's different this time.

The sweetness she saw in him is not temporary; he feels it now, his exterior seeming to melt away and leave something raw and quite vulnerable behind. She rolls them over so she's on top again, her head about a foot above his face, the ends of her hair tickling her face and acting as a curtain around them; her legs are wide open over his hips, willing him to do it like they just did, but he surprises her:

He leans up, deeper into the curtain, and kisses her gently on the mouth.

She holds his hair and tries to slip him tongue, but he doesn't take it. Instead, he keeps their kiss light and slow, like thick maple syrup, as if he has infinity here with her.

Restlessness grips her limbs and she tries to slip him tongue again, but he stops her, doesn't take it. He just keeps kissing her as he was, enjoying the mere feel of her, the taste of her. Her legs are open but he takes his time, slipping her a bit lower and letting his hands feel their way up her back, exploring the ridges where her spine is, running his index finger into the various grooves.

It drives her crazy. She needs to get her blood pumping and thumping and fast in order to sustain the heat and he doesn't deliver, just keeps kissing her like he has been, too sweet, too cool. And she almost wants to scream, because she tries to roll him around, wake him up, and he doesn't budge from beneath her, his torso angled upward so he can kiss her. She tries to shake him, grip his hair and squeeze hard, but he doesn't let up. If anything, his kiss gets even softer. And it drives her crazier than crazy.

Until finally, she just breaks the kiss, pulls herself away and asks him out loud, "Is there something wrong, Tony?"

"What?" he mumbles, his lips thick and pink and a little bruised-looking in the limited light.

"Is something bothering you?" she asks. "Is there something you need to…talk me about, before we continue?"

"No," he says, bewildered. "Why?"

She sees the honesty blatant like sunshine on his face and gives it up.

"Never mind," she says, and somewhat self-consciously slips off of him onto her side of the bed, turning so her back is to him, her hair in his eyes.

He lifts his hand and puts it hesitantly on her waist, but she slaps it away. She's frustrated now, all the physical lust that had been brewing for this second time going nowhere, and he can feel it burn him when she touches him.

But, he muses as he turns over and tries to control the trapped and frustrated intrigue in him too, this wasn't his fault.

_She _is the one who calls the shots, and she is the one who goes to sleep first, curled up in his blanket instead of his arms for warmth and staying as far from him as his mattress will allow.

* * *

For several hours, Ziva is as deeply asleep as a person can be, lost in whatever goes on inside her head that she won't share with anyone. But, with significant difficulty, Tony manages to stay awake for every single minute of those hours.

The quiet is lonely, dull, leaving too much room for him to get lost in his own head, but he watches his clock, the large red pixels keeping watch, and gets through the shapeless hours. At 4:15 AM exactly, his patience is rewarded; without any warning, Ziva sits up in one fluid motion, wide awake, and turns to look at the clock. Tony tries to close his eyes so that she doesn't suspect anything, but she is too fast for him; she knows he is awake and she is utterly astonished.

"What are you doing awake, Tony?" she inquires in disbelief.

"I could ask you the same question." He opens one eye and then the other, taking in the sight of Ziva's face, open and obvious in the dark. "It's not exactly time to get ready for work."

She colors pink. "I…have to go," she says lamely.

"Why?"

She considers. "Because I need to get my things," she says. "My clothes and toiletries are all at my place, so it makes sense to go there and change before work."

He gives her a look that tells her pretty clearly that no, this answer won't fly. So she tries again.

"Okay, okay," she says. "It's because you snore."

"I do not!" he objects indignantly.

"You do," Ziva tells him, "and I can't take it anymore."

"Hey, _you _are the one who snores like a fog-horn, not me," he reminds her.

She rolls her eyes at the slight but otherwise holds her expression steady and solemn.

"Well, I have to go," she says. "I am…sorry."

"Are you?"

These two words tumble out between his lips before he can think to stop them, and they surprise her, make her hesitate. She catches his eye and it's intense for a moment, staring at him there; but she turns her head away too soon, breaks the moment, and steps out of bed. Her bare skin glows in contrast to all the dark shapes and colors in the room.

And all he can do is watch her pick up her clothes and put them on, one by one, her back and rear end always facing him until she covers them up too, never looking back at him once. He feels vaguely guilty for watching her change, taking away her privacy, but she chooses to stay in the room instead of hiding in the bathroom. So he watches her and she stays, though her back is to him.

And by 4:30 AM, she is out the door and he is alone. Again.

* * *

A/N: Okay…so…there was that. Ahem.

(Just so you know, I am a seventeen-year-old relationship virgin – I have never had a boyfriend, let alone sex – so any awkward mistakes I made here can be blamed on my age. Heh.)

Next chapter should be lighter, as it features Abby and McGee. And remember how I told you I would answer some difficult questions in Chapter 12? Well, I decided to cut the current Chapter 11 and have thus decided to make Chapter 12 the new Chapter 11. Now we have that to look forward to as well – because like you, I am itching for a bit of confrontation. Not a resolution, but a proper confrontation. So we'll do that.

I have nothing else to say besides I hope you liked this and please review on your way out!


	10. Something's Up

A/N: All right-y, folks, you're getting warmer – sex vs. intimacy is definitely something that's on my mind as I'm writing this. I'm getting differing opinions on it: some people think it's more in-character to stick with the sex for now and then move on to intimacy because Ziva has major commitment issues, while others of you are wondering why I haven't moved on to intimacy yet because poor sweet little Tony is dying over here.

However, last night and this morning saw a huge influx of plotting and planning in my head – enough to fill five and a half sides of paper – so looking through that, we will see some nice bonding starting as early as…well…the chapter after this one. But this one is necessary for set-up, which is why it's included.

So…enjoy.

* * *

**X. Something's Up**

Could we have a moment?  
It feels so real  
I'm picking out a blossom  
I pin it on the wall  
It feels so real

- Kyle Andrews, "Sushi"

* * *

Surprisingly, the Dinozzo theory of relationships succeeds with uncanny accuracy the following afternoon: once NCIS manages to catch Ava Beauregard through a BOLO, the interrogation reveals that she did indeed kill Ferguson and turns the situation into their first open-and-shut case in a long time. The evidence matches up; she confesses with details only the killer could give; the story checks out.

Ava even admits she thought they would never find her. Of course, Tony immediately scoffs and calls her naïve.

With Ava safely cuffed and in custody, Gibbs' team finds themselves with time to spare before dinner. In celebration, Abby declares that Tony, Ziva and McGee no longer have plans for the evening and will have dinner with her at the Italian restaurant on 54th street, because profuse amounts of garlic and carbohydrates will complete their happiness at catching another dirt-bag. She refuses to hear a word against her plan and tells them to wait upstairs for her. Then she disappears back to the elevator, presumably to make a stop at her lab before she leaves.

This leaves McGee, Tony and Ziva grinning away at each other on the main floor as they pack up their things.

"I love it when we get done early," says McGee appreciatively, looking around at the working office. "It's such a nice change – we get to leave first instead of last."

"I took the train this morning to come to work," says Ziva. "My car is still at the shop. Do you mind if I pitch a ride with one of you?"

"Hitch," Tony corrects. "And sure, you can come with me."

"Thanks," she says, though given the current state of affairs she would have much rather gone with McGee.

"So, Tony," McGee says with a sly sort of look on his face, "I haven't heard about that date of yours in a while. The hot Pilates one. How is that going?"

"It's going well, McProbie – and I owe her Pilates teacher more and more everyday," Tony remarks. "But it's…complicated."

"Complicated? How so?"

Though Ziva's face hasn't changed, she is as curious as McGee, her senses alert like a lioness sensing a predator some ways off, wondering if she is threatened.

Tony, reveling in their anticipation, sighs impressively.

"She's…tense," he says. "I feel like even though the sex is…well…you know…everything else hasn't come up to the same level."

"And that actually matters to you?" McGee arches an eyebrow.

"Well…yeah, McProbie, because at my stage in life—"

"—which is fairly advanced—"

"—at my stage in life," Tony continues a little louder, "after all the experience I have had, I have come to discover that actually, there is more to life than sex."

"No!" McGee feigns shock.

"Yes," says Tony solemnly. "And in order to get something more out of my relationships, I am trying to make the hot Pilates girlfriend trust me. But I think she's got some major commitment issues so no matter what I do, she doesn't think it's enough. And it's kind of driving me crazy."

"Well, she gets points for making you think a little harder," says McGee with a shrug. "It's good for you."

"That's exactly what I thought," Ziva inserts unexpectedly, her eyes black and sparkling and never leaving Tony's.

McGee nods in agreement. "Because it's true," he says.

Tony catches Ziva's eyes for barely over a second – startling, stunning even – and she opens her mouth to speak again, continue the banter forward; but Abby chooses now to appear back upstairs, bright and bouncy as ever, and says, "Thanks for waiting! Let's go!"

Tony and Ziva jump slightly; McGee's interest shifts from the two of them to Abby as smoothly as anyone could ask for.

Her energy is contagious and their awkward party moves towards her like moths to the flame; and she, with her excitement and her plans, obliges the leadership role with pleasure, herding them out to the parking garage, driving the previous conversation mostly out of their minds.

On the way down to the parking garage, she gives Tony and McGee detailed directions to the Italian restaurant, because apparently getting into their parking lot is a little tricky if you haven't done it before. When she's through, she dismisses them to their cars and tells them to grab a table if they get there before her. The three agree and split up to go to their respective cars. The air gets awkward almost immediately as McGee vanishes from earshot and it's just Tony and Ziva now, preparing to trap themselves in Tony's little metal box for the next fifteen minutes.

Discomfort runs palpable as he backs out of the garage, but they have both gotten better at pretending it doesn't exist; he drives out to the road, she turns on the radio, and they half-listen in silence until they get to the restaurant, wordlessly agreeing to let Abby and McGee facilitate conversation once they all get together.

Tony follows Abby's directions and Ziva doesn't comment on Tony's driving and they get to the restaurant in good time. Tony locks his car and the two of them enter the restaurant, where they find that they are the first ones there. The hostess leads them to a table for four and Tony pulls out his phone to text Abby and McGee with the news of their arrival. Abby texts back almost immediately saying okay and McGee texts back about thirty seconds later.

Now there is nothing to do but wait; so, while sipping their waters and staring out determinedly into space, looking very much like high school freshmen out on a first date, they do just this.

And this imagery – that of inexperienced people self-consciously suffering through a date – is the first thing that hits Abby when she approaches the table.

Initially, when she hugs them cheerfully and sits down, she dismisses it as chance, nothing special. McGee joins them soon after and the conversation rolls from there. But as she watches, as she really watches the way they interact with each other, that first picture of them at the table nags and she can't stop thinking about it.

Tony, his hand near Ziva's but not quite touching it; Ziva, her chair closer to the table's edge while his is closer to hers; Tony, with his easy jokes and murky eyes and dazzling smile, and Ziva with her easy laughter and murky eyes and dazzling smile. All the signs are there – this isn't just partners feeling awkward because they were never this awkward around each other – and there's only one conclusion to draw from this.

That something's up.

That something is the matter.

That maybe – just maybe – something personal is going on between Tony and Ziva.

She wracks her brains but it's the only thing that makes sense.

For the duration of dinner, talking about the case and other memorable cases and the way the team had tracked down Ava, Abby says nothing. There's nothing _to _say at this point. But she keeps watching and things start clicking and clicking into place.

How Ziva seems to wear the same outfit more than once in the week; how Tony seems more exhausted than usual; how Gibbs seems to be watching them both more carefully than usual. How Ziva, while digging into her spaghetti, tries too hard to keep her elbow from brushing against Tony's; how Tony talks almost exclusively to herself and McGee, as though afraid to say anything to Ziva.

Something's definitely up and by the time the bill comes, Abby has made up her mind on what to do next.

Tony stretches his limbs out and yawns contentedly, his grin lopsided and his eyes on the little black booklet.

"Well, you guys, I think I'm going to cover this one," he announces, reaching for his wallet in his pocket.

"Don't be silly, Tony," says Abby, swiping the booklet away. "We'll split it. Cough up, guys."

Abby, Ziva and McGee obediently contribute their share in cash; Tony only has his credit card and tells the waiter who comes to collect the booklet to take the rest off the card. And they polish off the last bits of dessert at the table and stay relatively silent, peaceful and satiated with not much else to say.

The waiter returns with Tony's card and now they are free to go, full as they are on the carbs Abby had promised. McGee looks ready to go to sleep; Ziva is as alert as ever and Tony looks more relaxed than he has all evening at the thought of going home full on Italian food. Elated, Abby takes in the sight of them, warmer now than she had been when they broke out the wine, because that's the natural reaction to having dinner with good friends – and it's also the feeling that precedes recklessness, which is what she intends to indulge in the next few minutes.

However, keeping in line with the cozy-sleepy atmosphere, she hugs each team member in turn and bids them a good night; but when they all meander towards the door, Ziva next to Tony because some unspoken gesture passed between them saying that he is her ride home, Abby grabs McGee and pulls him aside where the other two can't hear. McGee is astonished to find urgency written all over her features – an urgency that had certainly not been there moments ago.

"McGee! Something is up with Tony and Ziva," she blurts out, no lead-in, no notice, no nothing.

His classic baffled-McGee face makes an appearance at the frantic assertion.

"What do you mean, something's _up_?" he asks.

"I mean, they're keeping something from us!" Abby's eyes are as wide and shiny as freshly-polished coins. "I need you to ask them what they're hiding, McGee."

"Are you kidding?" McGee is incredulous. "They're much more likely to tell you than me. Particularly Tony."

"Yes, McGee, but by tomorrow, you will have a new case and a new avalanche of evidence to drop on me, and you will therefore have more time to talk to both of them," Abby insists. "I'll be slaving in my lab all day."

McGee opens his mouth to argue, but Abby is fierce – as she always gets when she suspects something is off with her friends – and he knows it's futile. The fight flows out with his exhale and he nods, however grudgingly.

"All right," he mumbles.

"Good." She gives him a sunny smile and a complimentary hug. "Thanks, Tim!"

"Yeah, yeah…"

"So I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yep, tomorrow."

Her smile brightens even more, if it's possible. "All right – have a good night! Thanks for coming!"

The smile pulls at only one corner of his mouth, but it's genuine and they part in opposite directions with pleasure. The night is cold, the wind nippy with condensation over their open mouths like smoke screens, and McGee tucks his hands into his pockets to generate some heat in them again.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the restaurant safe from the scrutiny of Abby and McGee, Tony does the same, his fingers curled into fists in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched like an old man in a feeble attempt at warming his neck. Ziva, somehow immune to the weather, remains at ease, matching his pace as they meander in circles around the empty lot. Theoretically, it could be an extra parking lot, but only a couple of dark innocuous cars are here, leaving them in considerable anonymity – just the way they like it.

He sighs and there is physical evidence of it blowing from his mouth to her face. She looks to him and searches him for signs of conversation. When none come, she makes one of her own.

"So…is there any particular reason we are walking here in the cold when we are parked on the other side of the street?" she inquires.

"Yeah," he says suddenly, as though snapping back into the world from some faraway reverie she isn't privy to. "Yeah, there is. I wanted to ask if you wanted to come over tonight."

"And this is the place to ask me this?"

He shoots her a look. "I didn't want Abby or McGee to know," he says.

"You could have asked me in the car, where there is a heater," she points out.

"Fair enough."

"So…shall we head that way?"

"That would probably be good."

"I thought so."

Blushing, he leads; rolling her eyes, she follows. He unlocks the car and both of them climb inside. He keeps the gear in idle and lets the car warm up a little, lets them warm themselves up a little, and as she doesn't put on the radio, the thawing air is silent. But as he begins to put the car into reverse, she chooses to speak.

"Hey, Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"Why do you talk about me to McGee when I'm in the same room?"

His foot hits the brake; his eyes find hers.

"What?"

"You heard me," she says. "Why do you talk about me to McGee when I'm in the same room?"

He hesitates.

"Well…" He searches for the words. "Because…it's easier to talk to you indirectly."

"What?"

"You heard me," he parrots, somewhat mockingly but mostly seriously. "You just…don't like direct conversation, so I have to be more creative when I need to tell you something."

"Whatever you say to McGee, you can certainly say to me," she reminds him.

"But how much of it would you listen to?" he counters.

She falls silent; he is grim with victory. He half-considers saying something else, too, since he's got her attention but decides to avoid over-kill – satisfied, he reverses out of the parking spot and heads out to the main road.

She puts the radio on now and they are ponderously silent the rest of the way to his place.

* * *

A/N: Pace was a little difficult for me to get right this chapter, but I read it over now and I figured it was as good as it was ever going to get; so I gave it to you, crossing my fingers that you could see artistic merit that I missed. (The end, however, is actually meant to be brief and ambiguous so that it paves the way for next chapter.)

Speaking of which, I'm really excited about next chapter and the chapter after that because they get some really nice groundwork through (assuming I write them correctly, of course) and I think you'll like what you get.

Hopefully this chapter correctly served its purpose of adding a fresh perspective – Abby's – and expect Tim and his queries to return three chapters from now.

Cheers, and please remember to review on your way out.


	11. And We All Fall Down

A/N: This is what you guys have been waiting to read and what I have been waiting to write. So let's enjoy this, yeah? It's a bit pivotal and exciting. The usual worries about OOC plague as ever but what can you do but write as it comes to you and hope for the best?

Besides, you guys are great, the best readers a writer could ask for. I can trust you to read honestly and tell me politely if it doesn't work rather than rip me to shreds. So let's rock and roll up in here.

_NOTE: An f-bomb or two dropped due to sheer provocation. You have been warned if dirty words make you uncomfortable._

Enjoy.

* * *

**XI. And We All Fall Down**

Now is a phase and it's changing  
It's rotating us all  
Thought we're safe but we're dangling  
and it's too far to survive the fall

And this I know  
It will not bend  
Invisible and indivisible

That fire you ignited  
Good, bad and undecided  
Burns when I stand beside it  
Your light is ultraviolet

- The Stiff Dylans, "Ultraviolet"

* * *

Tension tension tension heat heat heat inhale grip tug push take hold and then

relax.

They fall back on his bed, exhausted and exhilarated, and stay quite still like that for several minutes, splayed out and sunk down on the mattress, breathing heavily, blinking at the ceiling as if it's the sky raining stars down on them. She breathes harder than him though, her chest rising and falling with astonishing alacrity, and their shoulders touch, hands touch, and her hair is in his eyes and he can smell her smell as if she'd sprayed it from a bottle all over both of them.

This is his favorite part: the intermission between the first round and the second, when they are tired and something halfway real hits their horizon and lingers there, sometimes even after they begin again.

Idly, he withdraws his hand from beside hers and twists a strand of her hair around and around his fingers. She hasn't had time to straighten it all week, since she's been here all night, so it's thick and curly, the way it used to be – the way he likes it. In this dream-like state, he almost considers telling her this, letting the words tumble out from between his lips, but then looks at her once, the energy emanating off of her in waves, and decides it isn't worth it.

There are more important things on his mind right now and he decides to air them right now, right this second, and see what happens.

"Ziva?"

Her chin tilts up slightly in a way that means she heard him.

So, bravely, he asks, "What are we doing here?"

She turns her head to face him now, her brows furrowed slightly in thought.

"I thought we were taking a break," she says.

"No, I mean, with…everything," he clarifies, somewhat shyly. "Where is this going? Where are _we_ going?"

She thinks about it for a second, but only for a second.

"I…don't know," she tells him.

A glint of frustration lights up his eyes like fireworks. "Why?" he asks. "Why don't you know? Shouldn't you know what you want out of this?"

She shifts so that her entire body is on its side, her whole front facing him.

"Well, how can I know what to expect when you are the one who is never serious?"

He starts: her answer is so honest, so completely out-of-the-blue, and such a thorough slap in the face, that for a moment he is rendered speechless. His lips open and close and then open again and it takes him a moment to react.

"That's not fair," he argues when the words come, tone definitely darker now. "Not fair at all."

She shrugs like she always does, ruthlessly blasé, when her heart is hammering and the opponent isn't supposed to know that her heart could explode from pressure at any time.

"I think it is," she says, "because while I grant you have had…one…serious relationship, it ended the way all of them ended – because you weren't interested in gluing around."

She means sticking and on any other day he would have corrected her; but what she's saying, and the way she says it sears through him hot and hard like a poker from the fire straight to the heart.

It burns. He burns. And he assumes that was the goal here, because this is another thing she does – shoves people away as cruelly as necessary when she feels they have no business being there. And she must really be desperate to get him out because they rarely ever discussed that one serious relationship and Ziva knows perfectly well that Jeanne is still a sore spot in his memory.

It takes a lot out of him to swallow the indignant ball of hurt in his throat and respond halfway-intelligently.

"What I had in that relationship…I mean, it was a mission but I cared about her…"

"It ended," she interrupts him, point-blank and malicious, without even blinking. "You let her go."

And this, this does it. He never told her what his last words were with Jeanne but somehow, she seems to know, because she used to be fucking Mossad and she fucking knows everything. Pressure builds and builds behind his eyes until he can't see anymore and he can't hold this tightly anymore and he just has to explode, because who can keep being the good and sweet one when he's hurt and she just keeps staring, boring into him, waiting to see the fruits of her labor?

So he does. He explodes – but quietly.

"Yes, I let her go," he says, tough like hardened steak. "And yes, it ended – but it's not because I was fickle. I was serious because I did care about her – kind of like how I care about you, although God knows why I do _that_, because you are a _nightmare_, you know that? What do I have to do to prove myself to you? I let _you_ call all the shots and I follow _your_ lead and that's still not enough for you. So, to go back to my original question, why are you here? Why me?"

And suddenly she looks small then, her features shrinking into her face under his inferno; but suddenly she also looks harder than ever, something behind her eyes shuting off at the way his fuse ignited so quickly and let go.

And suddenly her wild curls look like limp curtains trying to hide her tightly pursed mouth and her trembling muscles and her eyes like broken stones; and suddenly she looks like she's quietly in distress but he fights not to care because she doesn't deserve pity – because _he _deserves pity – and he stares her down, as ruthless now as she was a moment ago, waiting for her to react.

And when she does react, it's so subtle – her distressed features swiftly straightening themselves out until she really does look like stone – that he wants to explode again.

"Do you ever feel a damn thing, Ziva?" he asks bitterly.

And then just like that she crumples in a way that says she does, she does feel a lot of damn things, and she has to turn away because she doesn't want to be upset, doesn't want to care, doesn't want to be anything to him at all.

She has better instincts – instincts that say run far, run fast – but America has made her soft, Tony has made her soft. She feels the softness pervading through her like she's a plush toy; so when the hard familiar impulse to flee takes root, she clings to it like a baby to her mother's skirts.

Without another word, she slips out of his bed and finds her clothes on the floor where they mingled with his, and puts them on, not caring what he sees or what he doesn't see because she'll be gone in a minute and she knows they will both fight to forget this scene ever happened; but he ruins that for her too and asks her, "Why are you leaving?"

"Because you want me to," she says, admirably calm.

And despite his anger, he finds her determination to be unruffled assuages him a little too.

"That's not what I want," he says.

"So what do you want?"

The question hangs, a little raw, a little broken, but he finds he has an answer – and it's easy, natural, baffling in simplicity.

"I want to be with you," he tells her.

"What does that mean?"

A wry, ardent little grin plays on the corners of his mouth, despite everything.

"It means…talking," he says. "It means…going to Denny's at two in the morning for waffles, just because."

She glances at the clock. It reads, in glaring red pixels, that it's 1:58 AM. His watching eyes are meaningful. And this – him and his clock and his unbearable truth – triggers in her a trembling little smile, like a sapling struggling towards the sun.

She was about to wear her shirt but now stops, leaves the material hanging off of her open palms. She's only in her undergarments now, yet somehow more exposed than she had when all her clothes were off. The anger smoldering and dissolving into a poignant sweetness only he can wear so guilelessly, he fishes his boxers off the floor and puts them on, making his way to her. He is deliberate and careful but also fearless, somehow, as he approaches her and takes the shirt from her hands.

She looks up at him and his eyes never leave hers. With tenderness she's rarely experienced, if ever, he opens the neck of the shirt and pulls it over her head, smoothing her hair out for her when it flies outward. Hesitantly, she raises her arms half-way and he helps guide them through the sleeves. And then he gives the bottom of the shirt a final tug and smoothes out her hair in the back.

She purses her lips, holding back an avalanche, and together they find her pants; and when they find them, he holds them out in front of her and she uses his shoulders for support, stepping into them and pulling them up her legs with him, the material cool and snug against her skin. She buttons them herself but his hands linger close, as though unwilling to leave hers; and for a moment, she is shy of letting him in when she feels she no longer deserves his advances; but then he catches her eye again and she brings her thumbs to his mouth, tracing the shape of his lips, reveling in their softness, feeling her way around and wondering if he still wants her permission to enter when she's been denying him so long.

He leans inward, hardly daring to breathe. Waiting for her now, it's as if they've never kissed, never talked, never had raucous sex in his bedroom. And because he's waiting – because he meant to goad her forward instead of drive her away – she closes the distance between them and kisses him.

It aches. She engulfs him and invites him in and he can taste the pain of it mixed in with the desire, the fear with the hope.

And that's what he'd wanted, really. To know that there was honest desire and some hope somewhere in her. To know she is capable of falling down a little, if it means keeping him around. Because everything else will come if they want it enough and he already knows he does.

Thus satisfied, he breaks the kiss and squints in the dark for his clothes. She finds them first and he takes them from her, putting them on quickly without letting her help him. And then he takes her outside to the body of his darkened apartment, grabs his keys and looks for his coat.

But she already has it on her arm, waiting for him to find her leaning against the wall, grinning at him.

His smile is sunnier than it's ever been with her and she's pleased to know she can inspire that in him, even if she drives him crazy and he was mad at her a few minutes ago. She opens the jacket for him and holds it out; he turns around so that his back matches up with her front and he can slip his arms through the sleeves.

He shrugs the jacket into place and shyly, she zips it up from the front for him, his hands poised at the top of the track, lingering in anticipation for her fingers. And when they meet, both pairs warm, it tingles like this is the first time they've ever touched.

She didn't bring a coat with her today because she's insane and her shirt is thick enough to sustain her, so they now set out together in his car, where he puts the machine into gear and she turns on the radio and they lay back in silence – the good kind, for once.

And though the day hasn't broken yet, and it's still black like midnight around them, and they are still a little awkward, they continue forth obliviously, speeding down the empty streets to Denny's.

* * *

A/N: Next chapter takes place at Denny's!

Now don't forget to review, you lot. You have plenty to talk about. Button's right down there.


	12. The Dawn Breaks

A/N: So…wow. You guys reacted really well to that last one. I'm so glad; it was an important one to get right.

Not to insinuate that _every _chapter isn't important to get right, but you know what I mean.

This particular chapter has been assigned the job of changing the mood up a little. I feel like I've been piling on the angst thus far and I really want to do this couple justice – because it's not just about angst and tension and catharsis with them. They tease each other, and laugh, and enjoy themselves too. So it's time to lighten things up here – and what better place to do that than Denny's over waffles at two AM?

Enjoy, darlings.  
XX

* * *

**XII. The Dawn Breaks**

Take my hand  
'cause we're walking out of here  
Oh, right out of here  
Love is all we need here

The space between  
what's wrong and right is where  
you'll find me hiding, waiting for you

The space between  
your heart and mine  
is the space we'll fill with time

- Dave Matthews Band, "The Space Between"

* * *

By the time they are settled down at Denny's, it's 2:30 and somehow Tony is starving and goes a little overboard with the waffles, informing the exhausted-looking waitress, Debra, that they want three orders of them with sausages. And coffee. Lots of coffee.

Debra, with her rumpled outfit like a molting chicken and her seemingly permanent scowl, doesn't seem terribly excited by the business and stomps off, presumably for the coffee.

And, somehow, all of this strikes Ziva as inexplicably hilarious.

"I think she is going to spike your coffee," she tells him through her giggles. "Isn't that the term for it? When you put something in the drink?"

"Yeah, you got it right," he says, equally elated. "Hmmm…maybe she will. Maybe I should have you sniff it for poison before I drink it. Don't you have super-smell or something?"

"I can't smell it, but if I dip the napkin in it and it burns, then we know we have a problem," she suggests.

"Wanna put a bet on it?" His expressive eyebrows wiggle like shaken maracas.

She narrows her eyes in challenge. "How much?"

"Ten bucks," he announces, "that she won't put anything in my drink."

"I'll take that bet," she says.

They shake on it; and when their grip breaks, Debra returns, looking sour, holding out two cups of coffee.

"Here you go," she says, setting the cups in front of them.

"Thanks." Tony flashes her a wide, angelic smile.

Debra blinks for a moment, looking remarkably like a startled frog; and then she flees, leaving Tony to ponder his coffee, sniffing it nervously. Ziva peers over it too and sees nothing but thinnish black liquid. She pulls a face, pondering it too.

Expression solemn, Tony lifts the cup slowly to his lips and takes a tiny sip. Almost at once, he gags.

"Pepper," he chokes.

Ziva collapses into more giggles; and once the taste of pepper finally subsides from Tony's mouth after gulping down half of Ziva's untainted coffee, Tony laughs with her, the two of them utterly entertained. And then Ziva pushes the rest of her coffee at Tony, who polishes it off without thinking, and she holds out her hand for the money.

"Pay up," she says. "You owe me ten."

"Fine, fine…" He pulls out his wallet and grudgingly hands over his last ten. "I hope you're happy."

"Very." Giving him a cocky smile and waving the bill in front of his face a couple of times, she tucks it away in her pocket and rests her elbows on the table, her chin in her palms, staring him down in a way he can't quite decipher. He finds himself pleased, inspiring a look like that on her face – enigmatic, fascinating, even a bit affectionate if her irises catch the right light.

Clearing his throat, he takes a quick visual sweep of the table's condiments and remarks almost to himself, "I must remember to tell that fetching young waitress to bring me chocolate syrup."

"Chocolate syrup?" She picks up the maple syrup bottle and examines it closely. "Isn't it this one that you put on waffles?"

"Well, yeah," says Tony, "but I like chocolate syrup. It's…sweeter, somehow. Much better on waffles."

"Really?"

"Really. Once you go chocolate, you can't go back."

"And when did you first have this…earth-shattering epiphany?"

"When I was a kid out with friends at a Denny's very much like this one," he tells her, clearly aiming for the impressive. "We had the chocolate syrup on the table because one of us was having an ice cream sundae. I stole some of it, put it on my waffles…and the rest, they say, is history."

Her smile is effervescent, genuine. "I see."

"It's just one of those combinations that work," Tony explains. "Like ketchup and rice, or mayo and ketchup—"

"—or cheese pizza and pineapple," Ziva suggests.

Tony wrinkles his nose. "You know, I have never understood that one. I tried it once and nearly got sick."

"Because you have no adventure in you," she informs him.

"And I assume you're one of those people who eats jalapenos raw without any water," he says.

The mischief in her eyes suits her, when its sole aim is no longer torturing him. "As a matter of fact, I most certainly am," she informs him.

"No."

"Yes."

"You do know you will have to show me this talent of yours some time, right?"

She tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear. "I suppose."

"And you do know that the time will mostly likely be within the next hour?"

"The next hour?" Now Ziva wrinkles her nose. "If we are going to eat three orders of waffles, I am going to need to keep my palette clean for the sweetness."

"We have water for that," he scoffs, and startles her by suddenly whistling at Debra, who happens to be passing.

"Hey! Over here!" Tony raises his hand, as though he isn't obvious enough already.

Debra, who looked sour to begin with, now looks like she has swallowed a lemon whole.

"Yes?" she asks.

"We'll need some raw jalapenos out here right away, please? The hottest ones in the kitchen?" Tony requests.

Debra appears mystified. "Why?"

"We just do," says Tony. "Could you get them?"

For a moment, Debra seems tempted to say no; but the moment subsides and she sullenly acquiesces, padding off to the kitchen as though she'd much rather pad off to bed. Ziva watches her progress, amused.

"Now she's going to spike the jalapenos," she remarks, "because she thinks they are for you."

"Well, if she did spike them, she would put hot sauce on them or something to put my mouth on fire, and that would suit me just fine because I want to know how _you _react when _your _mouth is on fire," Tony reasons.

"Fair enough." Ziva grins and sips on her water.

Debra returns now with a handful of jalapenos, expression dark and clearly stating that she is not happy to be at their service but she has to be since they are the only patrons in the restaurant at present. She drops them like poison on the little plate in front of Tony and then disappears, not bothering to tell them to signal her if they need anything since she figures they already will.

Tony examines the jalapenos in the plate, checking for possible toxins. There don't seem to be any there, though, so he pushes them towards her and says, "All right, Ziva, are you ready for this?"

"I am," she confirms.

"Ready…get set…go!"

Arching her eyebrows at his urgency, she picks up a jalapeno at leisure and nibbles on the end of it, just to torture him. And it works: he sighs impatiently and tells her, "You have to actually eat them for it to count."

"Patience, Tony!" She grins. "It is a virtue, is it not?"

He rolls his eyes and she takes a large crunching bite out of the jalapeno. As expected, flavor explodes on her tongue but she holds her composure, finishing off the last of the jalapeno and putting the stem on the side. Tony appears astounded.

"And the other ones?" he prompts.

So Ziva finishes the other ones, taking each in three bites, setting the stems aside. Each jalapeno makes her nerve endings scream, but she has always been good about hiding how much pain she's in; and so she continues to indulge his curiosity, to protect her reputation, but mostly to amuse him, keep his eyes round like that, like shining buttons.

At the last jalapeno, it's getting pretty hard to breathe, but Tony is so impressed that it's worth it. Worth every single one.

"You are…insane," he grants her, bowing his head with respect. "Well done."

She preens through the fiery haze of her mouth. "Thank you, thank you."

"Here, take my water," he says, pushing his glass towards her. "You win."

She would never tell him, not even under most kinds of torture, but she is extremely grateful for the water and it takes most of her self-control to drink the water in a cool, controlled manner. And he watches her lap it up, more engrossed than he would like to let on in the way her throat undulates as the liquid goes down, the way her lips are poised on the lip of the cup, the way her nose is the slightest bit pink that has nothing to do with the cold.

When her mouth has calmed down some, and both their waters have been consumed, Tony flags Debra down again and asks for refills on the coffees. Debra brings the pot over and tells them to just keep it, likely because she wants a nap in the back and doesn't want to be disturbed; and when she's gone, Tony fills both of their cups to breaking point, takes a giant sip and refills it again, just because he can; and Ziva laughs, because watching him react with such enthusiasm to these simple, juvenile things begins to warm something hard in her, like sun encroaching on the winter morning.

And then Debra comes with the waffles, and then again with the chocolate syrup that Tony asks for, and the steam rises from the hot fluffy goldenness, as warm and welcome as they suddenly are to each other; and she glows as she complains about how many calories are probably in this sugary concoction with the chocolate syrup added on top; and he is luminous with his smiles and his words, thriving with her encouragement.

He's always been open, always been a freer sort of soul even in his darker moments. But she is only now beginning to blossom, beginning to trust him and laugh with him and share something meaningful with him, something that extends beyond being partners or sexual partners.

It's nothing monumental that she tells him over the course of their meandering conversation – just the first person she ever punched, why she likes _The Sound of Music_, the bracelet she got for Christmas when she was thirteen that she never wore and the reason why she started sleeping with a gun in her hand under her pillow – but it's an admirable distance for her, considering everything.

The piles of waffles dwindle as the sun rises, first faint hints of yellow on the horizon and then a large buttery-yellow orb peering up like a curious child; and when it's fully up in the air, when the day has broken like an egg in the sky, vanquishing the night, they remain, with dirty plates and slightly blood-shot eyes, grins still in place.

Tony glances once, however unenthusiastically, at his watch. It reads 8:34 AM. They have been here for hours and now it's time to go to work. He tells her this with extreme reluctance.

"So…do you think we should head into the office directly?" he asks.

"We have to," says Ziva, stretching out luxuriously against the hard back of her chair. "There's no time to go home."

He sighs, disappointed. "I suppose we'll have to."

Her responding smile is too sweet, too understanding, to be an idle spur-of-the-moment gesture. "I suppose we will."

For the last time, Tony flags down Debra, who seems infused with new life at the knowledge that they are leaving, and she brings them the check. He searches his pocket for his wallet, but she has already has the booklet and is groping inside her pocket as well.

Quick as a flash, his sense of chivalry kicks in and his hand closes around the booklet.

"Hey, I got this," he says.

She gives him a Look.

"I can think of sixteen different ways off the top of my head to break your wrist," Ziva says, astonishingly matter-of-fact. "I will get it."

He puts his hands up caught-criminal-style. "Well, all right then," he says, though secretly he is quite touched.

Satisfied, Ziva pays this time and they give the booklet to Debra, who processes it with unusual alacrity and gives the card back, bidding them a pleasant morning. And then they leave together, stepping out into the sunshine, towards his car, which is a softer and friendlier creature than it had been in the strangeness of the early dawn.

Instinctively, they look at each other: he, gentle and questioning, and she, hesitant but determined.

Without words, he answers her and she answers him and they slip into their respective seats, smiles slightly stunned. And there is something to be said about the fact that she does not turn on the radio even once, preferring their silence to someone else's noise.

* * *

"They should be here by now, McGee," Abby hisses, as she attempts to hold her meant-to-be-casual pose leaning against McGee's desk. "Where are they?"

"They'll be here," McGee assures her for what has to be the fourth or fifth time in the past three minutes.

"You were supposed to ask them what was up and you didn't," Abby accuses. "Maybe if you had asked, we would know where they are right now."

"They could be in traffic," McGee suggests.

"Or they could be bleeding in the street because you were too shy to ask them a simple question." Abby's glare is piercing when she wants it to be.

But, fortunately, he does not have to endure it for much longer; for a moment later, the elevator doors open and reveal Tony and Ziva, walking in side by side, their speech quite animated. Abby gives McGee a vigorous, triumphant slap on the arm.

"McGee! Look! They're here!" she cries out. "TONY! ZIVA!"

"Good morning, Abby," says Ziva, her smile now uncertain.

"You guys are late; I was worried," Abby explains, throwing herself upon Ziva in a passionate hug. "And you too, Tony." She throws herself upon him as well.

"We're fine, Abby." Tony coughs, presumably from a cracked rib due to extreme external pressure.

"Good. You had better stay that way." She lets go and beams with relief at him.

"So, is Gibbs around?" Tony searches the immediate vicinity, stiffening with nerves. "Do we have a case?"

"He hasn't been up yet," says McGee. "But I would watch it because—"

"We have a dead sailor up in Norfolk; grab your gear."

Upon hearing the familiar call, Gibbs' well-trained hamsters-come-agents lapse into the usual flurry; including Abby, who scurries towards her lab, where she must wait for the crime scene evidence.

The three follow Gibbs into the elevator in a straight, obedient line and the doors close in front of them. However, as the elevator shaft carries them downward, McGee's phone vibrates in his pocket.

It's a text from Abby.

_They are wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Something is definitely up – so you owe me ten bucks. And you have to talk to them when possible._

McGee glances up; and indeed, she is right.

In his head, he groans.

* * *

A/N: In case it wasn't clear at the end there, Abby and McGee had had a bet (not written into the story) on whether or not something was really up with Tony and Ziva. And, since they are still in yesterday's clothes, there is something up. So Timmy will need to investigate, as part of the terms of their agreement.

But he won't investigate next chapter. Next chapter is more adorable-but-kind-of-serious fluff. The chapter after is when Timmy makes a fabulous reappearance.

Hope you enjoyed this, then, and please remember to review on your way out!


	13. Empathy

A/N: You guys are so NICE. Geez. You'd really think I could do no wrong, reading through your comments. But the little black hole where my heart should be laps up all the credit (whether or not it's deserved) and appreciates it more than you could ever know. So…thank you. Again. So much.

More fluff this chapter, because fluff is good for us in small concentrated doses. It's not all entirely happy, but it's sweet, which is why I still call it fluff.

Enjoy, guys.  
XX

* * *

**XIII. Empathy**

I haven't got a clue if you're the one,  
but I like you  
and ooh I like how you make me feel.

I want to do this right.  
Don't want to waste this night.  
But, I'm drowning.  
Drowning in your love.

Bring me flowers and talk for hours  
and ooh I like you,  
And ooh I like how you make me feel.

Caught up in your smile,  
I'm happy as a child.  
But I'm still drowning,  
drowning in your love.

Bring me flowers and talk for hours.  
And ooh I like you,  
And ooh I like how you make me feel…

- Hope, "Bring Me Flowers"

* * *

The dead sailor in Norfolk is named Harry Brennan and apparently, his killer is part ninja and part ghost because he or she left absolutely no forensic evidence behind to trace, despite the bloody mess left behind. Abby goes half-crazy at the lack of answers her beloved Mass-Spectrometer is able to give her; Ducky goes half-crazy at the muteness this particular body seems to possess in extraordinary quantities; the rest of the team goes half-crazy at the lack of answers their computers are able to give them.

And, as expected, Gibbs goes all the way crazy at the general lack of knowledge flowing between them and gives several steely glares that recall to mind that old phrase, 'if looks could kill.'

Because if looks could kill, Tony, Ziva and McGee would have each died about twelve times over.

By eleven, they have gotten nowhere and it makes no sense to detain three exhausted agents any longer, so Gibbs gives the go-ahead and they are free to flee. McGee doesn't wait long to take up this offer but Tony does, dawdling as Ziva packs up, wondering whether or not he dares ask her to come over with Gibbs in ear-shot.

Considering Gibbs' current mood, he figures he doesn't dare, so he stops dawdling, collects his things at top speed, and walks out to the elevator with her. Once they are safely inside and heading downstairs, he clears his throat and says with some significant, "So…I was thinking of having some Chinese take-out and watching a movie tonight."

"Congratulations, Tony," she says dryly.

He turns to look at her, bewildered, but she is already looking at him, smirking. When his face falls, she laughs and nudges him playfully.

"If you want to ask me to come over, just ask me," she says, still chuckling. "Be literal."

"You're never literal," he points out.

"Because I am not nearly as good at it as you are," she says.

Her tone is light and easy, but something about the nature of her statement strikes him as strangely serious, even a little poignant. He searches her face for a solid fifteen seconds, trying to work out why, to no avail, and then clears his throat again, sufficiently embarrassed.

"Well, all right then," he says as the elevator dings and the doors open to let them out. "Do you want to join me for Chinese take-out and a movie?"

She clicks her tongue and grins at him in a way that he finds extremely sexy.

"Yes," she says. "I would like that."

He cocks his head slightly to the side in a way that she finds extremely sexy.

"That's good to hear," he says.

She laughs, low and a little gravelly but mostly sweet, and they walk out together to his car, because her car was ready to pick up at the shop today but Gibbs wouldn't let her out of the office early enough to get there before it closed, so now she needs a ride and he wants to be the one who gives it to her.

His car is a familiar place now, like his apartment; she sits in the passenger seat and it smells like him and she knows where the button to turn on the radio is without even thinking about it. A hip hop song plays and he sings along for a few lines, pretty out-of-tune and with completely misplaced swagger, but she laughs and he sings along for a few more lines just because he likes it when she laughs like that.

He misses a few yellow lights and she complains about it, says she'll definitely have to drive back if he doesn't pick up the pace; and he tells her that driving with her is like participating in a non-approved drug trial, because he has no way of ensuring she won't kill him.

She clicks her tongue at him again but now they pull up to the take-out place and get out of the car to fetch the food. Tony places the order because he insists he knows what Ziva will like and they wait around for twenty minutes while everything is being prepared, still debating the characteristics of good driving, bantering back and forth.

When the order is ready, Tony drives them back to his apartment and lets Ziva set it up on the coffee table as he stands in front of his shelves of movies, staring critically at the rows of colored boxes, trying to decide what to watch.

"What are you in the mood for tonight, Zee-vah?" he asks, saying her name with that obnoxious snap he loves so much. "Action, horror, fantasy…"

"Surprise me," Ziva tells him over the container of steaming white rice.

"All right." Tony glances back at her and she looks up just in time to catch his dazzling white-toothed grin. "Hmmm…let's see here…"

He makes a big thing about walking by each bookshelf several times, muttering incoherently under his breath. She ignores him and puts out all the food to her satisfaction – and even begins to dig in when the time it takes to pick the movie begins to get ridiculous.

Finally, when Ziva is about six bites into her rice and kung pao chicken, Tony says, "Aha!" and takes a box off the bookshelf.

"Do you have it?" she asks.

"I do," he says triumphantly. "Another classic!"

"As good as _The Shining_?"

She sounds perfectly serious but he looks at her once and he can see the humor in her controlled expression.

"Very funny," he says.

"You have not answered the question," she points out.

"Because they're different genres, Ziva, you can't _compare _them," he scoffs.

"Which movie is it?"

She cranes her neck to catch a look, but he clutches the box protectively to his chest.

"It's a surprise," he tells her. "I'm almost positive you haven't seen it."

"Oh?"

"Because it's not really your type," says Tony, putting the disc inside the player with flourish. "But you need a proper education in movies – and I'm curious to see how it goes."

"Fair enough." She scooches over on the couch and Tony sinks down beside her, grabbing the plate waiting for him and filling it promptly with some of everything. His weight is warm and she scooches back over a little so that they touch and she is as close to him as she can be without debilitating the progress of his dinner.

He can't lie to himself – he loves this, he loves that she wants to be right beside him – but she isn't the kind of person who will respond positively if he follows his natural instinct and puts his arm around her, or kisses her hair, or briefly nuzzles his nose in her neck. She isn't touchy-feely and he doesn't want to push her; so he contents himself with a smile like a sideways banana and lets the movie play.

At first, she hasn't the faintest idea which movie he has chosen. While she is passably up-to-date on a few classics and what's been in theatres for the past couple of years, she doesn't know enough to be sure which movie is playing now. So she tries to understand and eats her way through her first helping of take-out, but gives up twenty minutes in and asks, "What is this?"

He stares at her with such a hurt, scandalized expression that she has to work very hard to suppress her urge to laugh.

"You don't know what movie this is?" he inquires, heart-broken.

"No," she admits.

He sighs, loud and rather comical. "It's _Titanic_, Ziva," he tells her. "You know, James Cameron's four hour 1997 epic? Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio? One of the best love stories of our time? Seven Oscars including Best Picture?"

Ziva searches her memory banks but comes up blank.

"I don't know it," she says.

Tony looks like he might cry.

"_Everyone _knows this movie," he says.

"Apparently not," she points out.

He lets his plate fall to his lap and hits his forehead against his palm. "This is ridiculous," he says.

"Stop whining and let me catch up, then," she suggests, turning her attention back to the screen.

And, with just one more scandalized frown in her direction, he does just that.

Perhaps _Titanic_, as a four hour epic, wasn't the best idea to begin at midnight, particularly after the rigors of today's case, but the movie unfolds and Ziva watches attentively, much more so than when she had 'watched' _The Shining_. Tony, having seen the movie a couple of times already, focuses more on eating and watching Ziva watch, looking over at her every minute or two, observing every minute change in her expression, dying to decode every snapshot his brain can take of her face.

Her focus is rather admirable, considering her sixth sense for people staring her down and how antsy it must make her when she knows she is under scrutiny. She finishes her share of the take-out and also dessert, when Tony goes to fetch ice cream and chocolate syrup partway through, but her features remain roughly in the same places for the duration of the story, through every joke and every progression of plot.

He waits for her laugh, or perhaps the beginnings of sadness, but nothing comes. She just watches, statue-esque, and he cannot probe her mind even if he tries his hardest. Vaguely, he wonders if this is intentional.

The hours pass in a fluid, insulated manner, taking the two of them through the late night and much of the early morning. Jack and Rose fall in love and flesh out their breathless affair. Not once does Ziva move or say a word, change the expression in her features or the rate of her breathing. During the portrait scene, though – when Jack drew Rose wearing the necklace – Ziva suddenly turns her head and faces Tony straight on.

Tony, who had been staring almost exclusively at her face for hints at the inner workings of her mind, jumps and almost screams with shock.

"What?" she asks, crossing her legs and her arms, clearly on the defensive, leaning against the back of the couch. "Why are you staring at me?"

"Oh, no reason," he says casually. "Just, you know, wondering if you have any feelings at all."

She swats his arm with surprising aggression. "Of course I have feelings," she chastises him. "Just because I don't wear them on my shirt—"

"Sleeve."

"—sleeve, doesn't mean I have none," she insists.

"Yeah?" He arches an eyebrow. "Prove it."

For a moment, she looks as though she will respond with a barbed remark, but then her face changes.

"All right," she says.

"All right," he echoes.

She turns her attention back to the screen and, however grudgingly, so does he. But his resolve breaks within thirty seconds and he is back to watching her, back to fantasizing what she is thinking about as the movie continues on.

It only ever stays at the fantasy level for him, though, because she is as inscrutible as she was for the first half of the movie, refusing to emote or give him any indictation that she is even processing what's happening. Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio are chased through the ship, laughing and holding hands, openly glowing, but Ziva has no reaction. Several times, Tony is tempted to remind her that she agreed to prove the presence of emotion, but then remembers that she could kill him within five seconds of the words leaving his lips if she wanted to, and figures it's better to keep his mouth shut.

However, during Leonardo's final scene, telling Kate Winslet to live on with his blue lips and iced hair, something changes.

If Tony had not been the obsessively observant person he is, he would have missed the start of it entirely. The indecipherable darkness in her chocolate irises seems to crumble as though it was poked with a needle right in the gut, while her jaw tightens and her lips purse. And when Kate realizes that her Leo isn't responding to her quiet, desperate calls, and that he will never open his eyes again, a gleam that has nothing to do with the light from the television appears upon Ziva's eyes.

He hardly dares to move, watching this. But he couldn't even if he wanted to, because he is mesmerized, because he is curious, because he has never really seen her cry before, not really; and even though he wanted to see her feel something during this movie he never meant to make her look like this, like she's being quietly tortured.

And when the white light takes the screen over and the movie ends, she blows his mind by letting her cheek rest on his shoulder in a stunning display of unechecked vulnerability that he never would have predicted from her, never would have even asked of her.

But she gives it anyway. Gives it even though he wouldn't have asked it of her.

The credits roll and he asks, as gently as he knows how, "So…did you like it?"

"Yes," she says, still staring at the screen, her eyes still gleaming, her cheek still warm and heavy on his shoulder.

"And…you do have feelings," he says in a lame attempt to lighten the mood a little.

"I do," she confirms, letting his boorishness go because she knows that she has startled him.

"Do you mind if I ask which particular one this is?"

Instantly, he realizes that this could be considered a stupid question since she's crying and must therefore be sad, but he mentally defends himself by deciding there are lots of reasons to cry at the end of a movie and that there are lots of different kinds of sadness. So it's not a stupid question. It's actually very complex.

At first, he thinks she's not going to answer, because she stays silent so long, not bothering to remove her cheek from his shoulder.

But then she punctures the still air and blows his mind again by saying, "Empathy."

He so yearns to get a look at her face now, see what storm is brewing in those expressive eyes of hers, see if he can get any cues on what that raw, loaded word means to her because it speaks clearly of history he isn't privy to; but she is still on his shoulder and he doesn't want to move her, doesn't want to change anything about what's just happened, and he will simply have to do without knowing what she looks like.

Because that raw, loaded word of hers is more than he could have hoped for in all the years he's known her and frankly, he's pleased she said anything at all.

Maybe another day he'll get the full story; but for now, putting the TV off and leading her wordlessly to his room for at least a few hours of sleep before they have to go back to work and deal with their part-ghost-part-ninja murderer, he is content.

She is finally beginning to trust him fully. She is. And if he didn't believe it before, he believes it now when she kisses him not to seduce him but just to kiss him, and lets him follow his natural instincts – put his arm around her shoulder, kiss her hair and nuzzle her neck – before drifting off to sleep, still curled up in him like she belongs there.

* * *

A/N: Just a clarification here before we move on...

Notice how she is _beginning_ to trust him fully at the end there. She doesn't trust him all the way yet. So don't take this chapter as anything more than progression, because we have a long way to go before we get anywhere really deep. A LONG way. She confessed but she didn't explain; and while that's a step, that's not the whole path. I don't want to give you any wrong impressions.

So...yeah. That's all I have to say about that.

Just please remember to review on the way out.  
XX


	14. Epiphany

A/N: Sorry for the wait on this one, folks. My muse – realizing with a jolt that she's been pretty over-worked for the past couple of weeks – wanted a breather for a few days before she was ready to work again. And, since she's been good lately, I let her.

Now, here we are, both of us ready to go.

For this chapter, I felt like we needed us some more Timmy McGee – and besides, I think it's about time _someone _besides the omniscient Gibbs finds out what's really going on with Tony and Ziva. So that's what you're getting and I hope you like it.

Enjoy.  
XX

* * *

**XIV. Epiphany**

Ziva: It was no secret he was writing about us.  
Tony: Oh, come on, it's not about us. I mean the whole part about Lisa and her broken heart?  
Ziva: And the memento she keeps from a relationship that never had a chance to happen?  
Tony: Yeah. Where's he gettin' that? Or the scene between Lisa and Tommy where they pour out their hearts to each other and spill their secrets?  
Ziva: Or when he tries to explain the profound nature of his identity crisis?  
Tony: Yeah, I mean, the hidden struggle between who he is and what he's becoming? I don't even know what that is.  
Ziva: Yeah, totally unrealistic.  
Tony: Would never happen.

- 4.20: Cover Story

* * *

When Tony struts into work whistling jauntily, the jollity in him is so palpable that McGee is instantly suspicious.

Because if Tony is this happy, he can be sure no one else can be.

So when Tony is safely seated at his desk, too far to head-slap him unexpectedly for his brashness, McGee clears his throat and broaches the subject.

"So…Tony," he says, "you seem cheerful. What's going on?"

"Just having a good morning, McProbie," says Tony, grinning as he warms up his computer. "I had a good cup of coffee this morning."

McGee narrows his eyes.

"This isn't your I-had-a-good-cup-of-coffee good mood," he argues. "This is your…happy-happy kind of good mood."

Tony snorts. "Well said, McGee."

He says this in a way that is final, clinching, because he doesn't really want to talk right now. He had just dropped Ziva off at the shop to pick up her car on his way to work; and before she went to get the keys, she kissed him. And it startled him because it was like she had kissed him last night – spontaneous, no hidden intentions or will to seduce. Just a kiss, small and sweet, given on an impulse of affection.

And she had walked away with a smile, her hips swaying like tree branches in the wind, and he felt like he was in eighth grade again, watching the prettiest girl with a vacant expression on his face, forgetting there were other things to do today.

He finally found the sense to drive again, listening to the radio station she liked on his way to work, his mind still flipping contentedly through images of last night – her scent, warm and spicy as she slept beside him, and her delicate caramel shoulders, and the way she was so soft when he held her close, and the way she smiled at him this morning when she woke up to his face in hers.

These are the things he is thinking of right now, as McGee gives him looks over his computer monitor – and they are not things he wants to explain. He just wants to drown in the happiness of it, how everything isn't quite as complicated for this temporary window in time and he wants to enjoy it while it lasts.

So he does. He enjoys it. And he is so engrossed that he doesn't hear McGee calling his name until he yells it and startles him out of his reverie.

"Tony, geez, what's up with you today?" grumbles McGee. "Both cheerful _and _distracted. That can't be good."

"What can't be good?"

Both men turn their heads just in time to see Ziva walking towards them, slightly breathless but mostly curious.

Tony blushes; McGee rolls his eyes.

"Tony's in a good mood," McGee explains as Ziva sets down her things. "I'm trying to figure out why."

Ziva's smile is unfairly cruel. "Really?"

"Yeah," says McGee. "I mean, I've never seen him this happy – which means something bad has either happened or is about to happen."

"Which do you think it is?" asks Ziva, leaning against her desk, eyes determinedly innocent though Tony knows better.

"Is it so wrong to be in a good mood, McGee?" asks Tony. "Is it so wrong to enjoy life?"

"It is when you're you," says McGee. "Now…I think something's happened, because if it were about to happen I would have heard about it already."

He ponders some more, brow furrowed in confusion, and Tony and Ziva exchange amused glances. McGee catches this; and, inexplicably, something seems to light up behind his eyes. He snaps his fingers.

"I got it!" he practically gasps.

"What, McSherlock?" Tony's smirk is lazy, entertained.

"It's the girl," says McGee. "That Pilates chick you've been dating."

"What about her?" Though his tone is easy, something constricts in Tony's chest.

"You were with her last night," says McGee, becoming progressively smugger with each word. "And she's the one that's making you happy – I mean, she has to be, if you walk into work like you did a few days ago and proclaim there's more to relationships than sex. And you two–" now McGee looks at Ziva "—have been acting really weird around each other lately, enough that Abby noticed and wanted me to come investigate. So, Tony, if you put those two things together, and add in the fact that Ziva does Pilates and is twenty-eight, the only conclusion that could possibly make sense is that…you two are dating. And Ziva was the one you were with last night."

The last word hangs, dangles, in the silent air. McGee waits, eyes darting from Tony to Ziva and back, hardly daring to breathe.

But then Tony looks troubled, glancing briefly at Ziva, and the jig is up. McGee's expression is a wild mix of excitement, shock and horror as he attempts to digest this new information.

"I _knew _it!" he whoops. "I _knew _this would happen eventually!"

"Shut up, McProphet, and don't flatter yourself," Tony grumbles.

"I _knew _it!" McGee repeats, his grin too wide and silly for comfort.

Ziva bites down on her lip, her cheeks a rosy pink, and chooses to sit at her desk and warm up her computer. But McGee goes to her next, incredulous and twitchy with animation.

"So…he finally broke you down," says McGee with flourish. "How is he? As good as he says he is? When did it start? Does Gibbs know?"

"These are very personal questions, McGee," says Ziva sweetly, "and if you value all the bones in your body, you will refrain from asking any more."

A flicker of fear ripples across McGee's features, but he is otherwise undeterred, moving instead to interrogate Tony.

"I can't believe you're actually dating Ziva," he says, leaning against Tony's desk. "What brought this on?"

"Not talking about this right now," Tony growls through gritted teeth, his expression tight in a way that suggests extreme mortification.

"I think right now is the perfect time to talk about it," says McGee, an evil little grin playing on the corners of his mouth. "Come on, Tony, I need details. How did it happen? Did you ask her or did she ask you?"

"I said, I don't want to talk about it right now," Tony repeats, shooting McGee what he obviously believes to be a silencing glare.

"Good call, Dinozzo, because we have to go back to Norfolk," says Gibbs, cruising in as he always does, heading to his desk to get his gun. "We just got a tip-off about another dead sailor killed in the same way as Harry Brennan. Grab your gear."

Never has Tony ever felt so grateful for the appearance of his boss; without a word, he grabs his things and heads out to the elevator, refusing to look at anyone in his single-minded pursuit of the dead sailor.

McGee snickers as he grabs his things and walks with Ziva to the same elevator. She looks at him and he gives her a look that clearly says that this isn't over and the interrogation will begin again once they're safely out of ear-shot.

* * *

A/N: This was a short one, but that's because there are three scenes I want to write that all go together but are too long, I feel, for the one chapter. So this scene stands alone, while the next two go together.

And that chapter is called "Interrogation." I don't think it's difficult to deduce what _that _will be about.

Anyway, I hope you guys liked it. Please remember to review before heading out of the browser.


	15. Interrogation

A/N: You guys are awesome. I love you and your enthusiasm. Thanks for still reading and still reviewing and still making my day. I appreciate it more than I could ever say – and I'm supposed to be the writer.

I've got a pretty good handle of this story outline-wise up until about Chapter 29. That's when the Tony and Ziva who live in my head begin asking me, where's this going? What's the point? What are we going to do with all the intimacy we're gaining? All three of us looked at each other and had nothing but blank stares to offer.

So now I'm turning the question over to you guys: please _go to my profile _and _vote in the poll _(if you haven't already) to _give your opinion _on where this should go, marriage-and-commitment route or break-up route.

That being said, here's the chapter. I had trouble with it. I hope it works out, though…

* * *

**XV. Interrogation**

Gibbs: "Number one supersedes all of the others."  
Jenny: "Never screw your partner?"  
Gibbs: "Never screw OVER your partner."

- 4.14: Blowback

* * *

Once the three agents are dispersed in the forest preserve where the body is, seeing if they can get lucky with evidence even though the killer is a proven half-ghost, half-ninja, McGee clears his throat and makes his move. Again.

"So, Ziva," he says slyly, dusting around the mud for stray footprints.

"So, McGee." Though her eyes spell murder, Ziva's tone is perfectly, deceptively smooth as she dusts for footprints.

"You know you're going to have to give me details on this thing with Tony, right?" McGee's grin is foolish but earnest. "How long has it been going on?"

"Not long," Ziva allows.

"Don't tell the probie anything," Tony announces unexpectedly from over both their heads, taking a picture of them with the camera, the flash causing their faces to scrunch with irritation. "It'll end up in a new companion novel – The New Kinky Adventures of Agent Tommy and Agent Lisa."

Ziva giggles, but McGee is not amused.

"Well, seeing as I not only predicted this would happen but figured it out all by myself, I think I'm entitled to _some _details," he defends himself. "I mean, we're friends, right? And friends tell each other stuff."

"Where did you get _that_ impression?" Tony snorts. "Clearly, you haven't had many friends, McFailure."

In the interest of gaining more out of this conversation, McGee lets this one slide.

"The more evasive you are, the juicier the information that you're hiding must be," McGee points out.

"Wouldn't _you _like to know." Tony snickers and snaps a couple more pictures of the corpse. McGee, however, is undaunted.

"You said it hadn't been going on long, Ziva," he says. "So does that mean…a week? Two weeks?"

"Somewhere around there," says Ziva vaguely, searching the nearby brushes for clues.

"His place or yours?"

That murderous glint appears back in her expression.

"McGee," she says like an announcement, approaching him with her hands on her hips, her cap over her eyes in a decidedly ominous manner. "I respect that we are friends and that you have an…interest…in my relationship with Tony. But if you ask me another question about that relationship, the sailor over there will not be the only corpse we take back to NCIS. Understood?"

Now McGee is sufficiently shaken.

"Understood," he manages.

"Good." Nodding curtly, Ziva stomps off in search of more evidence.

Tony, who has been standing back and watching with a grin, now steps forward and claps McGee on the shoulders.

"So far, McProbie, our relationship has been a lot of _that_," says Tony, pointing at Ziva snapping at Palmer, who had apparently walked into her in a moment of distraction. "You're not missing much."

"You, however, seem to be missing a lot, Dinozzo – get back to work!"

Gibbs strides forward and awards both men a head-slap each. Tony stiffens; McGee's expression is roughly equivalent to one knocked over the head with a cannonball.

"Yes, boss."

"On it, boss."

The two begin to lumber away and hastily comb through the rest of the crime scene, but Gibbs catches Tony's eye and, pained, Tony lingers behind until McGee is out of earshot.

Gibbs comes close, that familiar scent of wood and coffee filling the immediate air around his nose, and says quietly but unmistakably, "I don't particularly care how fascinating your social life is, Dinozzo. You have a job to do when you're here. Is that clear?"

"Crystal, boss," says Tony with a delicate cough.

"And although we've already had this conversation, I feel I should remind you about Rule Twelve," continues Gibbs.

"You know, boss, I'd been meaning to ask you about that rule," says Tony, as the two begin to walk among the various agents milling about.

"Yeah, Dinozzo?"

"This is purely hypothetical, of course," he says quickly, "but if one were to, um, hypothetically break Rule Twelve…would there be serious repercussions for both persons involved?"

Gibbs considers this one.

"Rule Twelve is still a rule, so you shouldn't break it," Gibbs says with a steely sort of look in his eye. "But, I guess in this _hypothetical_ situation, so long as the persons involved follow Rule One, I could live with it."

Tony hesitates.

"So…you're saying that Rule Twelve—"

"I'm saying that they're all rules to be followed, but that Rule One is the most important," Gibbs cuts him off. "All right?"

"I know, but boss—"

"Trust your instincts, Dinozzo," says Gibbs solemnly. "And keep the rules in mind."

Taken aback, Tony nods.

"Yes, boss," he says.

"Good. Now go finish up that crime scene so we can catch this dirt-bag."

"You got it."

Tony scampers back to the crime scene, rejoining McGee and Ziva, who shove a bunch of bagged-and-tagged items in his hands to take back to the car. Gibbs hangs back and watches with mild amusement as the disgruntled Tony stumbles back towards the car with the evidence while McGee and Ziva exchange a few words. Ziva laughs and at this particular moment, Tony happens to glance back towards her and something softens, relaxes in his features, which are currently strained from the load he carries.

He turns away quickly, looking over his shoulder as if afraid of being watched, and goes to the car. As he does so, Ziva happens to glance in his direction; something softens in her, too, as she watches his retreating back. But it's very brief in her – half a second of quiet affection and then back to the crime scene, back to running after Palmer, back to her customary poker face.

And though a certain amount of worry still brews, Gibbs grins, finding all of this unbelievably amusing.

* * *

A/N: As I said, I had some trouble with this (particularly the dialogue with Gibbs at the end there), but I really wanted to write this scene and did my best anyway. I hope you liked it for what it was.

Next chapter should be amusing and features Abby. Being a compulsive rambler most of the time, I currently have a thing for short chapters (like the length of this one) so I'm aiming for brevity next chapter, though it likely won't happen. So stay tuned.

Please remember to review on the way out.  
X


	16. Unsolicited Advice

A/N: Thanks, all, for your two cents regarding the ultimate end of this fic. I think I know what I want to do but I don't want to ruin it for you, so I'll just keep my mouth shut now and keep plotting/writing.

As for this chapter: I love Abby and her rants – they tend to be cuter, more charming versions of my own in real life – so I wanted to give her a chapter in which she could rant freely about the situation at hand. I have a hard time believing she wouldn't have something to say about it.

Enjoy, guys.  
X

* * *

**XVI. Unsolicited Advice**

What if what I want makes you sad at me  
And is it all my fault or can I fix it please  
Cause you know that I'm always all for you  
Cause you know that I'm always all for you

- Safety Suit, "What If"

**

* * *

**

When the team reaches NCIS again, Gibbs immediately dismisses them to brainstorm and heads upstairs to the director's office. The three go to their desks and begin to work, serious faces on because Gibbs seems to be having a Mood and the worst thing would be for him to pop up unexpectedly and get nothing.

However, by the time the computers have finally come online, Tony's phone rings.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Tony, it's Abby," the bright voice on the other end of the phone chirps. "Can you bring yourself and Ziva down to my lab please?"

"Will do, Abs." Tony grins into the phone but hangs up.

"Hey, Ziva," he calls out, "Abby wants us in her lab."

"Has she found something?" McGee frowns. "Already?"

"She didn't say," says Tony, making his way to the elevator. "Come on, Ziva."

"Okay, okay, I'm coming," she says, rising to her feet and following close behind Tony.

"You stay there and hold off Gibbs until we're back, Probie," Tony reminds McGee as the elevator doors open.

McGee contents himself with an exasperated look, but otherwise returns to the computer, presumably to oblige Tony's request. Meanwhile, Tony and Ziva walk into the elevator and wait for it to take them downstairs.

"I wonder what she wants," Tony remarks.

"Are you sure she didn't say anything?" asks Ziva.

"Yeah, I'm sure," says Tony. "She just said she wanted us to come downstairs."

"If she needs help with the evidence, McGee is the one to ask, not us," Ziva points out.

"We hardly had much evidence; she won't need any help," says Tony.

"So what does she want?"

"I guess we'll find out."

The elevator doors open and the two step out together. Heavy metal blares even before the entrance to the lab comes into view. Tony opens the door and Ziva goes through it first, entering Abby's familiar haven, the first visible thing greeting them the large cardboard box of evidence collected today at the crime scene.

Abby stands just a bit past the box, pulling gloves onto her hands before processing the evidence. When she looks up and sees Tony and Ziva, her face instantly brightens.

"Hey! You came!" she says, bounding forward and giving them hugs.

"Of course we did, Abby," says Tony with his usual dazzling smile. "Have you got something already?"

"As a matter of fact, I do."

With a secretive grin, Abby retreats into her office to fetch something. Tony and Ziva exchange baffled looks. When Abby returns, she is holding a little black something covered with stickers. Tony takes it from her and examines it briefly, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"This is your cell phone," he says.

"Very good, Tony, it _is _my cell phone. My iPhone, more specifically." Abby's eyes have a worryingly bright sparkle to them. "Go on, wake it up."

With Ziva peering over his shoulder, watching him, her breath slow and steady so near his hand, Tony presses the 'on' button. It instantly displays an alert, saying there is one unread text message.

He glances up at Abby, who nods encouragingly. Then he selects the option to read the text message.

It's from McGee, dated to this morning, just before they reached the crime scene.

_You were right._

Tony's bewilderment is unmistakable as he catches Abby's eye again.

"What does he mean, you were right?" he asks.

Abby is ecstatic: she has obviously been leading up to this question through the whole exercise and cannot contain herself any longer.

"I was right about everything!" she explodes. "About you two! You're dating!"

Tony is openly flabbergasted, Ziva more daintily puzzled.

"Tim figured it out this morning," Abby explains, rather impatient at their lack of appropriate response. "About how you guys have been going out for, like, two weeks or something. And that night, when we all went out, I predicted that you were and McGee thought I was wrong. But I was right! You _are _dating! Congrats!"

Not bothering to wait for their (probably) disappointing reactions, Abby throws herself on the two in a congratulatory hug. And, out of nowhere, she pulls out a small black device from her lab coat pocket and presses a button, releasing confetti inexplicably from the ceiling about two feet away from them.

"I set that up the day after we had dinner, when I figured it out," she boasts in explanation to their surprise. "I'm so happy for you! It's so adorable – the two field agents, partners for years, flirting all the time, finally admitting their feelings for each other and making passionate love after hours—"

At the look on Ziva's face, Abby hastily subsides, but Tony isn't quite finished yet.

"Is that why you called us down here?" he asks. "To tell us you knew and throw us confetti?"

"Not exactly," says Abby. "I actually had to talk to you both about this whole thing, since you are two of my best friends and I don't want you to screw it up. So sit down here—" she draws them up chairs "—and I will have you done really fast so you can go back upstairs and work."

Ziva's better instincts say run far, and run fast, but of course Abby wouldn't let that happen. In fact, the thought seems to have fluttered into Abby's head already, because she grabs the central remote for her lab and locks the doors with it, to prevent any great escapes. And, as there is no other way out and Abby would likely poison her next drink with something both lethal and undetectable if she left, Ziva takes the seat offered to her. From beside her, Tony follows suit – though slower, as if he can't believe this is really happening.

Thrilled to have the silent acquiescence of her two best friends, Abby beams at the two of them and begins her lecture, pacing back and forth in front of them.

"Now, since you're dating, there are a few things you have to remember," she says. "First thing's first – you have to tell Gibbs."

"Tell Gibbs?" echoes Ziva in disbelief.

"Gibbs already knows," says Tony with a dark look on his face.

"He does? And you're still employed?" Abby is delighted.

"He told me to remember Rule One," Tony explains.

"Of course!" Abby's face lights up. "Rule One. Got it. Perfect. So you've already got the first thing taken care of – that's great!"

"What's the next thing?" Ziva's tone is drier than any desert on Earth could be, but Abby seems to have missed the inflection entirely.

"The second thing is that you have to be cool about it in the office," says Abby. "Like, don't pretend it's not happening if it comes up with me or McGee, but don't let it ruin the way you work or Gibbs will kill you. So…it's kind of like what you've been doing already, except for the keeping it secret part."

"Should I be taking notes?" inquires Tony.

Abby shoots him a dirty look.

"Maybe you should be, Tony," she says, marching over to her cabinet and thrusting a pen and paper scrap into his lap. "Here. Take good, detailed notes."

He exchanges another look with Ziva, wordlessly asking her if he really has to do this, but Abby continues forth as though there had been no interruption.

"Third thing," she says, "is that you have to be nice to each other and respect boundaries. I mean, Tony, your love of movies is great and all, but if it gets too much for Ziva, you have to cut it out. And Ziva, I know you're BA and you can totally kick butt, but you can't beat up Tony all the time or make him fear for his life. You're boyfriend and girlfriend now; you have to make things work."

Abby's face is so earnest as she explains this that for a moment, Tony is actually tempted to take notes, just to please her. But she has more to say and she doesn't let up.

"The fourth thing," she says, "is that you can't embarrass each other with the secrets you find out. Or about your sex lives. Because that's just mean, even if it's only with me or McGee. That's personal and it has to stay out of the office, otherwise I give myself permission to head-slap you.

"Permission…to…head-slap," Tony mutters to himself, scribbling this down on the paper scrap. Ziva merely rolls her eyes.

"The fifth thing," Abby continues, "is that you're not allowed to break up."

At this, the reaction is more pronounced: Tony drops his pen in surprise and Ziva actually freezes, both of them completely floored.

Abby, pleased at their attention but displeased at the nature of the attention, holds her ground.

"You heard me," she says. "You can't break up."

"Umm, not that I had any intention of doing that in the foreseeable future, but it really isn't any of your business if we break up, Abby," Tony points out with a sheepish, foolish look on his face.

By the way her eyes narrow, this apparently was not the right thing to say.

"It _is _my business," she says severely. "I told you, you're both my really close friends, and if you break up, everything will be ruined – our relationship, your relationship and the whole team's relationship, because no one will be able to work if you guys hate each other."

"Abby," says Ziva in tones of forced calm, "w don't know if we are going to break up yet or not. It is too soon for ultimatums or predictions."

"It's not too soon," says Abby, "because I say you can't. Besides, why would you? You guys work great together on the field; a relationship is practically the same thing, except that it's off the field. So it shouldn't be a problem – I'm just spelling it out for you so that you're clear on it."

Argument is visible in Tony's eyes, but he suppresses it in the interest of keeping Abby from blowing up. Ziva, seeing this in him, decides to follow his lead and keep her mouth shut, for once.

Abby, seeing the lack of opposition, moves on promptly from there.

"The sixth – and the last – thing is that you have to be honest with each other," she says. "Talk about things. I know you've had issues with past relationships, but this one is different. All you need is some good, straight-up honesty and it's going to be awesome for you guys. McGee and I are always available for advice, but you should always talk to each other if something's bothering you."

Oblivious to the stunned expressions on her friends' faces, Abby claps her hands together and appears excited again.

"Okay…and that's that," she says. "That's all I needed to say – besides congrats again, of course! Now head on upstairs and get back to work; Gibbs is probably there already, wondering where you're at and what you've got – and then he's going to ask me what I've got and right now, I've got squat. I need to work. Shoo!"

Making large, fairly comical sweeping motions, Abby unlocks the lab door and herds Tony and Ziva out, though her farewell smile is large and friendly as she returns to her work.

Now that he is standing there, out of the lab, with time to reflect upon what just happened, Tony is close to hysterical laughter. He turns to look at Ziva, maybe share the laughter with her, but he finds to his slight astonishment that her face is tense. Some of the jollity evaporates from his mouth.

"Hey, are you all right?" he asks her, genuinely concerned.

"McGee knows," she says slowly, almost to herself. "And Gibbs knows. Now Abby knows. Soon, all of NCIS will know."

"Know what?"

"About this! Us!"

Ziva's hands go her hips; her lips are pursed; her mind is obviously spinning fast, the cogs turning, trying to determine the best way to phrase this. Tony waits patiently for her to figure it out. Finally, she deflates.

"It does not matter," she says.

"Remember what Abby said about being honest with each other," he teases, wagging a finger in her face.

She isn't amused.

"I remember what Abby said," she informs him darkly.

"Is that what you're upset about? Abby wanting to give us relationship advice?" Some of that lost jollity makes a spectacular return in Tony's intrigued grin. "Come on, did you expect anything less of her?"

She opens her mouth, presumably to offer a counterpoint, but then closes it again, still appearing moody.

"We should get going," she ends up saying. "Knowing Gibbs, he is already interrogating McGee about where we are."

Sensing that Ziva is still every bit as bothered as she was when Abby threw them out, Tony clears his throat and transitions into a more serious stance, not going anywhere.

"Look, I get that it's kind of weird that we're going to be the subject of gossip now that we're…together," he says, choosing his words as carefully as he knows how. "And I get that Abby's perspective kind of shook you up. But it doesn't really matter, you know. It won't change anything."

Ziva looks up at him, and in her face he can see that she truly believes it will change everything, but he holds his ground.

"This is still work," he says. "Everyone has other things to worry about. Right now, it's like a novelty. Eventually, people won't even care anymore."

"I understand _that_," she tells him, "but Abby was right about what would happen if we…broke up. It would get extremely awkward and we wouldn't be able to do our jobs. And maybe we have Gibbs's blessing for now, but I'm sure he does not generally approve of inter-office relationships."

"He has a rule about that," Tony remarks. "Rule Twelve – never date a co-worker."

"There you go," says Ziva. "There is even a rule about it."

"But Rule One supercedes all else," Tony reminds her. "Never screw over your partner. So long as we don't screw each other over, we'll be fine. Gibbs said that himself."

"Tony…" His name sounds so much softer, sweeter, in her foreign tongue. "Abby and Gibbs are right. If anything goes wrong, everybody will be screwed. We cannot underestimate the consequences. We have had our fun…maybe we just want to call it stops right here, amiably, before something happens."

She means quits, but he doesn't say it. In fact, he is too shocked to say much of anything. His lips open and close like a goldfish.

"This wasn't just 'fun' for me, Ziva," he tells her once he has recovered a little. "I thought we already went over this."

"I know we did," she says, "but this is too complicated. Work makes things complicated. This job means…a lot to me, and I don't want to jeopardize it."

"And I _do _want to jeopardize it?" His voice shoots up an octave with incredulity. "Ziva, that's not the point here."

"Then what is the point?"

He pauses, absorbing the intense, strikingly unguarded sentiment in her black eyes, her tight mouth.

"The point is that I know this club where the bartender owes me," he says, "and I want to take you out dancing after work. Do you want to go?"

There are layers and layers of implications to either answer she could give. And she knows it, knows it because of the way he looks at her when he asks, the way the question comes out terse and a bit desperate.

And as always, it seems, it is up to her to make the decision and guide them forward.

So she takes a deep breath, exhales the doubt, and fights for composure.

"Yes," she says, admirably demure. "I would like to go."

And they walk upstairs again together, shoulders close but not quite touching, again feeling as if they have dodged a bullet – as though they have put another piece of gum over a hole in the pipe, weakly trying to contain what churns and threatens to burst, not this time but a time very close to now.

* * *

A/N: Yay for a long chapter! Yay for doubt and more skirting around stuff! Yay for Abby and her enlightening rants!

At least…I hope those are yay's.

So, we have more issues this chapter, but next chapter should be sweeter fluff, if I remember correctly (actually, my outline is downstairs in my notebook and I am just too lazy to go get it and double-check).

I hope you liked it, then, and please remember to review on your way out.  
X


	17. Precipice

A/N: This chapter feels a little different, but for once I kind of like it. Hopefully you will too. I wrote it all in one ginormous wall of inspiration so it's a little crazy, but in a good way, I think. We're getting to the parts I'm really excited to write and it's going to be good (cross your fingers!).

I have nothing else to say (surprisingly). Read forth and let's see what happens! Cheers!  
X

* * *

**XVII. Precipice**

From your lips, a precipice  
I hang from every word

Height and seeking  
Oh, we are reaching  
New heights and seeking  
How to keep them high

- A Fine Frenzy, "New Heights"

* * *

After work, Tony meets Ziva the way he always does – watching her progress, waiting until she's ready to leave and following along after her, making their plans out of earshot of McGee or Gibbs and going from there.

Her mood appears to have recovered after their conversation outside Abby's lab and she seems eager enough to go to the club he tells her about. She has to get dressed, but she tells him she will meet him at his place when she's done and they can go together. He agrees and they go their separate ways, at least for now.

Ziva has always loved to dance and going out to a good club is often her choice of Saturday night entertainment, but somehow it's different when you go dancing for someone else, not just for yourself. The dress she selects, the shoes she digs out of her closet, the way she does her hair – the choices she makes become bigger than her singular self because there is another person involved, another person she will laugh with and brush up again, probably kiss.

She leaves her hair open and erratic over her shoulders and wonders how much skin to bare tonight. Technically, she is going with someone, so she is claimed; but somehow, when she looks at Tony, she doesn't see a date or a boyfriend. She just sees Tony – her partner Tony, her friend Tony, the guy who dressed up as John Travolta a la Saturday Night Fever just because some girl asked him to. So she thinks twice about the dress she is wearing, which displays her legs and her small cleavage to their best advantages, and wears a slightly more conservative one.

Because she is his. Because you don't dress to impress when the person you're with is already impressed.

One more look in the mirror – at the girl with the wild hair and dark eyes and the not-sex-pot dress, the girl with the boyfriend – and she's out the door.

* * *

Tony gets ready without any particular attention to his attire and is just putting the finishing touches on his perfectly-tussled locks when he hears the call from downstairs indicating a visitor.

It's Ziva. He buzzes her in and unlocks the door for her, putting away his comb because he doesn't want her to see him spending time on his hair.

He is just coming into the kitchen for a calming pick-me-up when she walks in the door. Though he has seen her before in her finery, he can't help but whistle softly when he sees her.

"You look nice," he says appreciatively.

"Thank you." She smiles.

"You want some beer or something before we go?"

"No thanks."

He has the can in his hand, but he puts it away and grabs his car keys.

"Sure thing. Let's go."

* * *

Though they do not exchange many words in the car on the way there, Ziva does not turn on the radio and Tony doesn't want to in case she doesn't want him to. By the time they finally reach the club – a happening place at this time of the evening – he is determined to get some alcohol flowing. After today, they need it.

They get in easily enough and hit the bar at once. Ziva orders a martini; Tony orders a vodka, straight up. Her eyes glittery and rather alluring in the smoky, multi-colored haze around them, the two clink glasses and finish the helping in one gulp, immediately asking for seconds.

The bartender – who owes Tony – obliges, and after a few drinks, he can feel his blood flowing again, warm and pleasantly buzzed. And, if the look in those eyes of hers are any indication, Ziva is feeling much the same.

"You want to dance?" he asks her.

"Yes," she says. "Let's dance."

And she lets him take her hand and lead her towards the deep bass beats reverberating through the floor and through their bodies, towards the crowd and the music.

* * *

Five songs and two more drinks in, she is finally free, completely in tune with her body and his. On some level, she is conscious of how drunk they are both getting, but this is the most fun they have had since Denny's. The club music is loud and insipid and wonderful, a presence in its own right, in her and him and around them. Her limbs are loose and he moves his hips with hers, barely touching her but all the more potent for his restraint.

Through the warmth and the slight dizziness, he is the only one she can focus on. He is quite handsome, really – nice to look at.

His hands on her waist, bringing her into him. It's nice, this. The dancing. His breath, hot and mingling with hers; his throat, undulating slightly with the passing of air. His heat and the way he is so attracted to her, and she can see it all the way through him. She smiles and it's ecstasy; he brings her closer.

The song climaxes and so do they, his mouth giving up and meeting hers, the kiss searing and confused and fumbling and beautiful in the midst of all the moving bodies packed around them.

And in this club, with the music and the alcohol and the people and the tight clothes and that feeling of invincibility, she can feel it potently for the very first time:

That he wants her. And she wants him. And this – the kiss and the way he knows how she likes it and the way she keeps grinding her hips against his in time with the song while still kissing the living hell out of him – this is it.

She nips at his lip, his hand slips to her rear end, and her back arches into him as if it belongs there.

* * *

The fire is back.

Sometimes, he forgets just how crazy she can drive him if she wants to.

He drove them home goodness knows how, kissing her during every red light, and now they are back to his apartment, stumbling into his room like some rabid two-bodied beast. And they are on his bed, scrambling to take the clothes off, fling them to the floor, hormones raging, intoxicated on the liquor but also on this, on each other, on how much this makes sense even when it shouldn't. And his lips are greedy but hers are even more so, unbridled in desire.

And even though there are plenty of reasons not to think clearly, he finds that he is sharper than he's ever been – and that even though they have been this high, this far, several times before, this time is different.

It's not just the anticipation of sex. It's all of it. It's her nuzzling him and sinking into him, her kiss rich and savory, not just hungry. It's his hands exploring every curve, every soft inch of skin he can reach, their shallow, irregular breaths the only sound in the silent room.

It's the way he pushes into her and it's quite possibly the most unearthly thing he has ever done; and how he feels untouchable, infinite, within the confines of this room, in this intimate thing he has with her; and how when she cries out, her voice cracks and she sees white sweetness behind her eyelids.

Maybe it's the hormones or the liquor or both, but something gives way, opens up like a second sky, revealing something lovely, barely tapped until tonight.

It is, quite simply, glorious.

They lie back and take a break after the first time, like usual, and he holds her next to him, protective for some reason. And his fingers idly play with a lock of her hair, turning it over and over on his finger, curling and uncurling it. And she is nestled obediently beside him, her cheek in his chest, letting him do so. Their breathing is heavy now, as if trying to catch up on all the mixed oxygen of the past several minutes. The ceiling feels higher tonight than it ever has.

But in this hazy state of wonderment, of quiet awe, Ziva unexpectedly breaks the silence.

"Tell me about Jeanne."

All sleepy contentedness forgotten, Tony's head whirls around to face her. His eyes are wide, as if a ghost sat on his head.

"What?"

If anything, she is dreamier this time.

"Tell me about Jeanne," she repeats.

Instantly, the loveliness vanishes and something hard constricts his chest: he is on his guard.

"What about her?"

"Everything."

This is probably the alcohol talking, because she would never dream of asking him this when sober, but he feels compelled to answer, even if the answer is not quite what she had been looking for.

"It's over," he says. "That's everything."

"That's nothing."

She turns to face him and finds that he's looking at the ceiling again – a little cold, shut off.

"I don't want to talk about it," he says at last.

"Why?"

He chooses to look her in the eye when he answers.

"For the same reason you won't talk about Michael Rivkin," he says.

Recognition flickers and then subsides.

"Okay," she says, and turns back to the ceiling. He follows suit and together, they stare upwards.

The weight of history has fallen without warning to their chests, but they bear it admirably. And even though a minute later, she is back on top of him and the events of many evenings past begin again, her mouth sloppy and welcome, he figures in his hazy way that it it's something that they mentioned Jeanne and Michael at all.

Not a fully realized Something, but something nonetheless. And despite her, despite himself, he realizes that he will willingly take what he can get, what she will give.

* * *

A/N: Is it just me or did that feel like a lot longer than the 1634 words my computer is telling me it was? Hmmm…

Either way, I hope you liked this. I know, I know, it's more of a hint than a fully-fledged step forward, but you have to sow the seeds before you rip the plant out of the ground.

Next chapter features short, sweet morning fluff involving breakfast. And then we get other stuff but I'll tell you about that when we get there.

Cheers, and please review on your way out.  
X


	18. Breakfast Failure

A/N: Hey there. Sorry for the wait – my life took a brief turn into crazy-town this week. Now back to business.

Coming up in this kaleidoscope heart, I have two sequence-arcs that conceptually, I am rather proud of. They get into the meat of things if they come out the way I want them to. This chapter is kind of like your prelude into them. One sequence-arc is bitter and a bit angsty; the second is decidedly sweeter. So some sweetness makes sense before all that.

Thanks for all your continued love and readership. It's the coolest thing. I appreciate it from every orifice of the little black cinderblock that is my heart.

Cheers, then, and enjoy.  
X

* * *

**XVIII. Breakfast Failure**

Just in time  
I'm so glad you have a one track mind like me  
You gave my life direction  
A game-show love connection we can't deny  
I'm so obsessed  
My heart is bound to beat right out my untrimmed chest  
I believe in you—  
like a virgin, you're Madonna—  
and I'm always gonna want to blow your mind

Hey soul sister, I don't want to miss a single thing you do  
tonight

- Train, "Hey Soul Sister"

* * *

For the first few nights, Ziva never stayed over. Finding this out required unnecessary wakefulness and a little disillusionment, but it was the truth of the matter: she never stayed. She never wanted to.

For the next few nights, Ziva stayed longer. Instead of leaving at four AM, she would leave at five, then six, then eventually seven thirty. She began to relax, sometimes even make love again, softer around the edges in the morning light.

But today, today is a milestone.

Because today, Tony wakes up at eight in the morning to bright sunshine and Ziva just beginning to stir beside him.

She stretches out her limbs, yawns, and blinks experimentally a few times, as if she has all the time in the world to readjust, wake up. This in itself is a change, garnering suspicion due to its lack of precedent.

And come to think of it, her purse looks a little swollen from this angle, its bottom drooping on the flat surface of his dresser.

Which means there are extra things in there.

Things that are likely used for morning hygiene.

Things that someone needs when they need to get ready for work at someone else's place.

Things that may need to stay long-term, if this happens again.

Hardly daring to hope, Tony rolls over so that he faces Ziva. He watches her intently, studying every curve of every eyelash she blinks as she realizes she has his undivided attention. Her smile is loose and mischievous.

"Good morning, Tony," she purrs.

"Good morning, Zee-vah," he says with his special snap. "Nice to see you still here."

She rolls her eyes, but playfully. "I was tired," she explains. "I wanted to sleep in."

"Yeah – and what better way to sleep in than to stay warm through Dinozzo-heat?" He wriggles in closer to her and succeeds in making her laugh.

"I suppose," she says, still grinning.

He nuzzles in closer. "Do you want breakfast?" he asks her neck on an exhale.

"Yes, actually," she says.

"Do you need to bring your Dinozzo heating blanket to the kitchen?"

"Separately, and dressed in boxers," she informs him.

His smile is actually a little dazzling – could be a toothpaste commercial for all its corny happiness, almost too exaggerated to be real.

"You got it," he says.

She smirks and disappears into the bathroom. The shirt she often wears in the morning is folded up neatly in the linen closet. Touched, she wonders when he laid that out for her. She slips it on, getting a whiff of his aftershave and laundry detergent as she smoothes it out, and goes outside to the kitchen.

Tony, it turns out, is already there, in boxers and a t-shirt as promised, frying eggs. Ziva arches an eyebrow.

"Are you sure you want to be doing that?" she asks, folding her arms and watching critically.

"Of course!" Tony gives her another one of his toothpaste-ad smiles. "I'm Italian; we cook all the time."

"But do _you _cook all the time?"

"I'm alive and financially stable, aren't I?" He appears slightly offended.

"Fair enough." She smiles an easy smile and flips the chair around before she sits on it, resting her hands and her chin in a stack on the top of the chair. "So…we are having eggs?"

"Sunny-side up," he clarifies. "With bacon, if you want. I think I have some in the freezer."

"No thank you."

"Toast?"

"That would be nice," she allows.

"Toasted or white?"

"Lightly toasted."

"Coming right up!"

Turning his attention rapidly away from the eggs, he rummages through the fridge and digs up three slices of toast. Excited as anything, he pops them into the oven toaster and watches them for a moment, presumably to ensure that the machine is working properly. Then he turns back to her and leans against the counter, observing her.

She arches her eyebrow again, observing him right back. The plain, slightly grungy white t-shirt; the blue and black plaid boxers; the scruffy hair and the alert eyes and the bare knees, surprisingly unimpressive, ordinary. And he takes in her wild hair, her face bare of make-up, wearing nothing but his large old t-shirt and sitting on his chair, her legs catching the light and looking shiny from here.

And he is caught up in her – in her eyes like sparkling champagne and her stubby, plain fingernails – when all of a sudden, they smell burning.

The eggs.

They are still in the frying pan.

With a swearword and an odd yelp, Tony leaps into action, flying back to the eggs and moving them around, turning off the flame and trying desperately to salvage his eggs. Ziva gets up and comes to take a look.

The two eggs stare at her like sad golden eyes with busted black capillaries.

Tony stops trying to save the eggs and glances at Ziva. She is apparently working very hard to fight the impulse to laugh.

"What, did my eggs just crack a joke or something?" he asks, sour.

"No," she says with a snort, "but you did just waste two perfectly good eggs and I find it amusing."

"You distracted me," he mumbles babyishly.

Her mouth twitches with humor.

"Why don't you go take a shower, get ready for work?" she suggests. "I can take care of this."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive." She gives his rear end both a slap and a squeeze. "Come out in fifteen minutes."

He smiles apologetically at her and retreats to the bedroom as requested. Already, he hears the sounds of activity in the kitchen – moving feet, the scrape of plastic on metal, the opening and shutting of cupboards and drawers.

But it's a different sound than his usual boorish, lazy movements: there is grace here, a feminine softness this apartment rarely sees, if it has ever. He doesn't usually bring women here, preferring to go out or go to their places. But of course, with Ziva, the usual doesn't count for much at all.

He takes a quick shower and puts on his work clothes, along with fresh boxers. He considers leaving Ziva's dress from last night in the heap where she left it when they threw it off, but thinks better of it and puts it on the dresser for her to collect, right by her purse. Then he puts in the appropriate amount of hair gel and comes back outside holding his socks, drawn out by the irresistible smell of well-cooked eggs.

And there is Ziva, looking more domestic than he's ever seen her, standing at the counter in bare feet and his t-shirt, transferring eggs to plates she found in the cupboard.

Intrigued, Tony steps forward to see what she is doing, but she clicks her tongue and stops him.

"I am not finished yet," she says.

"Do you want help?"

She smirks. "I think you helped enough earlier."

"I told you, you distracted me!"

"Too bad," she says, enjoying her ruthlessness. "Now why don't you sit there at the table like a _good _little boy?"

He makes a face at her and she merely flips her hair at him, back to the plates. He is left to burn with curiosity at the table.

Now that she has him waiting, Ziva turns making the plates into quite a production, searching drawers and cabinets for goodness knows what, making lots of noise, exaggerating all her movements and facial expressions, making him laugh. His laugh is a lovely, choky musical sort of sound, unguarded and genuine; and he spurs her on, makes her act even sillier, because it's fun to entertain someone who is so easily fascinated, hanging on everything you do – like a baby, absorbing everything.

So she entertains him. And she laughs more now, in the space of a few minutes, than she would in an entire day.

By the time she is satisfied, they have laughed themselves into an appetite. Ziva arrives holding their two plates and places one down in front of Tony with flourish.

"Buen provecho," she says.

"That means, 'enjoy,' right?"

"Basically." She grins. "Now eat."

With interest, he surveys the breakfast plate in front of him. It's scrambled eggs with shredded cheese and two slices of toast. It certainly smells delicious. He gives the eggs a poke with the spoon and they jiggle obediently. Then he takes a bite.

And sure enough, Ziva is an infinitely better cook than he is and these eggs are pretty much the best eggs he has ever tasted. He marvels that the ingredients came out of his modest little kitchen – and this thought seems to have floated into her head too as she closely examines his positive reaction, because she says, "I did not have very much to work with, but it seems to have worked out."

"These are good eggs," he informs her seriously while shoving another mouthful in for his teeth to work on. "Really, really good."

Her pleasure is quiet but palpable. "I am glad."

They eat in silence for a few minutes, Tony with enthusiasm and Ziva with an eye for table manners. The eggs are indeed quite fabulous, but they are made even more so by the fact that she made them especially for him and he likes them so much. He fetches them some orange juice to wash it down and then takes her dishes for her without being asked, rinsing them off along with his own and leaving them in the sink for later.

And then he comes back to the table, but she's already standing up, waiting for him. She would kiss him now, but they just ate breakfast, so she just hugs the wind out of him, squeezing him tightly against her.

He would kiss her too, with the way something fierce ignites in her when she looks at him, but he contents himself by stroking her hair, hugging her back, brief but snug. Then he lets her go, tells her to get ready and he'll take care of the kitchen, and he watches her walk back to his room, hips swaying slightly the way a woman's always does.

And as he washes away the last scrapings of his own breakfast failure along with the last scrapings of her breakfast masterpiece, he finds himself humming a song he'd heard on the radio yesterday when he listened to her favorite station and thought about her – a love song.

He hasn't sung one of those with a specific person in mind since his very first girlfriend in seventh grade – and even that was because she asked him to.

Huh.

* * *

A/N: This came out way longer than I thought it would, but it was cute so I figured I'd roll with it. Hopefully you liked it.

We've got the bitter, angsty-ish sequence kicking off next chapter, so keep those alerts handy. Dunno when life will let me post next, but I'll do my best.

And please do remember to review, you guys. I write for people, not numbers on my stats page – and your humanity won't be known to me unless you take a moment to type it out, even if it's only a few words.

Cheers.  
X


	19. Too Far In

A/N: This chapter is a catalyst. Its effects will be actively explored over the next few chapters. I hope you like it – and that you will see some of the more negative effects as the crucial breaking points they are – and that you will review when you're done.

Side note: My life was a bit crazy this week and will likely continue to be so over the next few weeks. Do not be surprised if I post a lot and then stay quiet for a few days, because I think I'll be writing in bursts as exams come closer and the holidays begin.

Cheers.  
X

* * *

**XIX. Too Far In**

Mine is not a new story  
Mine is not a new story  
Mine is nothing new  
But it is for me

- The Fray, "Dead Wrong"

* * *

There was a time not so long ago when Ziva thought it was sex that changed everything in a relationship.

But this morning, walking into the office with Tony and seeing McGee wrinkle his nose, tell Tony he smells like eggs – she realizes with a jolt that it's not the act of fulfilling a biological imperative that makes things hazy.

It's the intimacy.

It's the fact that she spends so much of her limited free time with him, practically all of it over the last couple of weeks when she really thinks about it. It's the fact that she sees him vulnerable, wanting her. It's the fact that she made him breakfast this morning and knows why he smells like eggs and went dancing with him and was responsible for some of his laughter, some of his joy.

It's the fact that when Gibbs, who has been frustrated by the ninja who has already killed two sailors and has now killed another one, arrives on the scene and barks the order to grab their gear, she grabs it in a way that lets her brush against him, catching his notice and keeping it on her for an extra second as they make their way obediently to the elevator.

These are the little things that change the big things. These are the ways you know you're in too far.

She can feel the change, perhaps not quite as clearly in him but certainly clear in her. She can feel the easiness in the way they address each other, the way they have seen each other naked and felt each other up and somehow acknowledge this when his eyes linger briefly on her breasts and she touches some random bit of him – his arm, his thigh, his shoulder.

It's scary, this. Wanting him. Knowing him. Understanding the way he is and the way she is around him without needing to think about it. It's scary to know that he wants to be with her – and scarier still that she wants to be with him, that she wants him to stick around.

He flashes her a sweet, goofy smile in the elevator and something black tightens around the thick folds of her red, red heart – something frightened.

She can't put a label on it, exactly, but it's there and it's perhaps the scariest thing of all. Scary because he inspired it and she has a sneaking suspicion that it would consume her if she wasn't careful.

* * *

The newest dead sailor, killed with the ninja's signature, is named Patrick Reynolds. The scene is quickly processed and taken back to NCIS. The team instantly gets to work trying to figure out where their ninja could strike next, when McGee suddenly catches a break and realizes that all the sailors go on the same six o'clock subway train from downtown every evening and leave at the same stop.

Gibbs is swiftly brought up to speed and in his quiet way, he is pleased. He arranges for Tony and Ziva to go to the train in question and keep a watch for anyone suspicious. The famous gut says today is a day they will get lucky, so Tony and Ziva change into outfits appropriate for tourists, complete with camera bags and tour pamphlets, and go to downtown in wait for the train. McGee and a couple of other agents go along as back-up, to assist if necessary and act as another pair of eyes and ears for NCIS. Within a couple of hours, they leave in order to make it to the right place at the right time, and the mission is on.

Since back-up has to stay a certain distance away from the agents, Tony feels quite alone with Ziva as they make their way downtown. The two of them dressed in jeans and casual t-shirts, walking in-step with the chaos of the city roaring around them, they could be anybody, any two random boy-girl couple cruising the streets together.

Brave somehow in this freedom, Tony wraps his arm loosely around Ziva's waist.

"So…downtown," he says. "Cool stuff, huh?"

"Certainly a nice place to spend an afternoon," Ziva remarks.

"Want to get some ice cream?" offers Tony, gesturing to their left. "_That's _a nice way to spend an afternoon."

She grimaces. "Tony. We have a job to do. Must you think about sugar?"

"Yes," says Tony unabashedly.

Ziva turns to stare at him, black eyes piercing.

"What? It helps me think! Keeps me sharp." He pulls a macho face. "Caffeine does the same. Should we stop at Starbucks?"

"We are not stopping anywhere," she informs him flatly. "The back-up team would be confused."

"I can always text the Probie," he reminds her, pulling his phone out of his pocket and waving it in her face to prove his point. "He'd keep the back-up team in the loop. We could totally stop at Starbucks. They're fast."

She gives him another one of those piercing once-overs. "If we catch this killer today, we will stop for Starbucks on the way home and I will personally pay for you," she concedes.

"Awesome!" Tony whoops with a banana-wide grin on his face. "How much time do we have before the train comes?"

"Not long. We had better head to the station."

"Okay."

The two pick up their pace – Tony's hand falls from Ziva's waist to his side – and they break into a light jog towards the train station. The increased clatter of feet behind them indicate that McGee and the back-up team have picked up on the urgency.

Tony and Ziva arrive just in time to slip inside the train's body. Some passengers are sleepy, others alert. The atmosphere is generally relaxed and the urgency of the agents sticks out a little, their bodies too tense, their eyes darting around too quickly.

One man with brown hair and blue glasses notices this and makes an educated guess. As the train moves, he offers his seat to a standing patron and cranes his neck across the cramped area to get a better look at them.

The train moves and the passengers sit and Ziva is the first to notice something is wrong. Of course. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention, and some animal sense she has spent years training kicks in, trying to find the source of the anxiety. She can't poke Tony into action without looking suspicious, so she hopes that he is paying attention to her, that he is as in tune with her now as he was last night and this morning in the office – that he will pick up on this.

Eventually he does, and his hand instinctively goes to his pocket, where his gun is. She tries to hide the motion with her hip, unsure of who's watching.

The man with blue glasses is watching. He sees his hand, her hip. His eyes narrow and he prepares to strike. The train is about to stop and it'll be easy, as easy as it was for those other guys who may have been on to him. The thought of paranoia never crosses his mind; he is merely concerned with preservation, of keeping his precious secret a secret.

The train stops. People begin to move. His hand goes to his pocket, his generally blank expression beginning to find that spark of hate, of madness.

Only now does Ziva catch onto him. Their eyes lock: she knows; he knows. Tony is just turning his head to look at her when the man's hand goes to his pocket, and Ziva's gun is already out, and in the silence, the moments between moments— bang bang bang.

The noises ring and the bullets ricochet off the floor, scaring the passengers in the vicinity but leaving them unharmed. All three of her shots find their way into the right target: the man with blue glasses is dead before he hits the floor.

It is over.

Ziva's breathing is faster as she holds the smoking gun, staring at the man – no, the corpse – now lying on the subway floor. People skirt around it, looking revolted. Others turn away. Tony is just speechless, though his expression is serious. He looks at Ziva and she wordlessly gives him permission to check the body.

"Federal agents," Tony says softly, holding up his badge, startling Ziva into showing her own. The two approach the body and Tony checks the pocket upon which the man's hand still sits. It contains a tiny gun with a silencer, but it also contains his keys, his wallet, and a packet of gum. Orange, Trident. His hand does not sit over any particular item and suddenly, Tony realizes that that's a problem.

Suspicious as the man was, he may have just wanted some gum. Technically speaking, the gun never actually made an appearance before he was shot.

He looks up at Ziva, who is watching the man and watching Tony and realizing these things. She swallows thickly and fights to look unconcerned, but she is concerned and her mask has gotten weaker lately, at least around Tony. She stands up abruptly over the body and wards curious passengers away from the body, telling them there's nothing to see, everything's fine. She leaves Tony to handle the body.

The train stops at the next stop and the back-up team appears out of nowhere, ready to keep the train where it is and maintain order and get everything cleaned up. McGee is there. He compliments Tony and Ziva on catching the right guy – they know it's him because the colorless, odorless liquid visible inside the bullet looks like some lethal, little-known poison they will need Abby to label with her mass-spectrometer when they go back to NCIS. The ninja has been caught.

But it's not quite as simple as that, as Tony and Ziva get inside the NCIS car and go back to the building to report to Gibbs. Tony has not fully grasped this, but Ziva has.

Sitting there quietly in the car, with Tony next to her but not touching her, haziness begins to become clear. That blackness that gripped her this morning was protectiveness – fear of losing him, fear of being without him. It gripped her earlier when she saw his childish happiness in the elevator and it grips her now, seeing him next to her, so soft and so human, needing just the right punch in the throat to silence him forevermore.

She could kill him this second if she wanted to – that man could have killed him on the train if she hadn't been there to watch out for him – and that scares her. Scares her more than it usually does. Scares her to the point where she shot that man not just the necessary once, but three times, to make sure he was dead and bleeding, that he would never get near her Tony again.

Her Tony.

That she called him this, even in her own head, is enough to get the blackness churning.

Because as she glances at him now, staring placidly out the window, she is extremely afraid – babyishly afraid – of losing him on the job. More so than she's ever been about anyone at any time. More so than she would ever care to admit.

Because they are intimate. Because she, at least, is too far in now and she is also afraid that she can't get out. That she may shoot the bejeezus out of other men potentially reaching for gum in their pockets because she can't bear to be without him.

This is a problem. It's shameful and stupid and a problem. She feels herself shutting down at the thought that next time, it may not work out quite so neatly.

Next time, it may be the wrong guy, the wrong time, the wrong angle, the wrong shot.

And that – that is enough to make all of her go the blackest of black.

* * *

A/N: I know it doesn't seem like that big of a deal, shooting a bad guy on a train as he may have been reaching for his weapon, but I hope Ziva's anxiety makes sense to you in context of the story's direction. The bad guy could have been reaching for gum for all they knew. The exercise could have gone horribly wrong. Just because it didn't this time, doesn't mean it won't next time. And it was her protectiveness that drove her to shoot the guy, so she's freaking out. The commitment plus the potential job fail makes Ziva freak out significantly.

Next chapter is a bridge; chapter after is the heavy one.

& please do remember to review on your way out, you guys.

See you next chapter!  
X


	20. Blurred Lines

A/N: Thanks again for your readership, guys. I appreciate it so much because honestly, I never thought I'd get the response from you guys that I did. It is all kinds of crazy – crazy awesome. So thank you, thank you – a million times, thank you.

This chapter is a bridge, a reaction to last chapter. It's also an excuse to re-invite Timmy McGee into the mix, because I love that cuddly little dork to bits and pieces. So I hope you guys enjoy it.

Cheers.  
X

* * *

**XX. Blurred Lines**

Set me free, leave me be  
I don't want to fall another moment into your gravity.  
Here I am and I stand so tall,  
just the way I'm supposed to be.  
But you're onto me and all over me…

- Sara Bareilles, "Gravity"

* * *

The scene at the train is swiftly dealt with, taken care of, the body removed and the innocent bystanders reassured. Wordlessly, Tony whisks Ziva off the train and takes her to the NCIS car that has recently arrived for them. His arm is around her waist, and she can't stand it, can't stand the way he thinks that's okay, holding her so intimately against his body in front of everyone.

Restless, suddenly, she wriggles out of his grasp and he subsides, walking beside her but keeping his distance, searching her for some reaction, some emotion, but getting nothing.

They are supposed to wait in the backseat of the car until Gibbs has assessed the situation and can debrief them on the ride back to NCIS. Chaos ensues – the Washington D.C. metro is, with few exceptions, the most public place to hold a shooting – but the car is warm, quiet, insulated. Claustrophobic.

Tony looks at Ziva, who looks out the window, and knows instinctively that they need to talk. It didn't escape his notice that the guy on the train hadn't pulled out his gun yet, or that Ziva shot him more than once, or that Ziva has realized the significance of these things the same as he has.

But there is always a right time and a right place to talk to Ziva about prickly things and this setting fulfills neither requirement, so he remains silent. And, reluctantly grateful, she follows his lead, utterly silent.

Time passes, shapeless and dragged-out in the awkwardness of the car, and Gibbs arrives back on the scene. McGee follows. The two climb into the car – Gibbs into the driver's seat, McGee in the passenger's seat – and Gibbs begins to drive. Something about his particular brand of quiet when there is debriefing to be done is ominous to all three agents; so they sit like bad children being driven home by their angry father, waiting until the nature of their transgression may be revealed.

It is not until they have hit the highway back to NCIS that Gibbs enlightens them.

"So…nice job catching the guy, Dinozzo, David," he remarks. "Caught him out of the crowd, managed to take him down before the situation got out of hand. Very good."

Tony and Ziva exchange confused glances – glances Gibbs sees, his eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror conveniently pointed in their direction.

"The man's name was George Bishop," Gibbs continues. "We will have to call his wife, Emily, when we get back to NCIS. His personal belongings are in the back of the car to be taken to Abby."

Now he pauses.

"One thing I did notice was that Bishop's gun was still in his pocket," he says. "He hadn't taken it out. But he still had three bullets in his chest. Who shot him?"

"I did," says Ziva at once – too fast, too composed, too roughly determined.

Tony and McGee turn to stare at her; Gibbs's icy blue eyes, the only visible features of his face in the mirror, become even icier.

"Why'd you shoot him?" He could have been asking her why she chose to leave her hair down today.

"I had probable cause," says Ziva.

"What was it?"

She doesn't hesitate. "My gut."

"Yeah?"

"Yes." She holds the gaze of the eyes in the mirror. "The way he looked at us was very suspicious. And he only reached down to his pocket when Tony reached for his gun. I did not want to create a scene, so I took care of it."

Gibbs takes another moment, digesting this. McGee looks out his window, utterly discomfited. Tony glances at Ziva, searching her, but the door handle could have given him more answers regarding her mood than her expression does.

Then—

"All right. I was just checking."

Tony glances at Ziva again, and he is sure that she feels his eyes on her, but she stares resolutely out of the window like McGee, about as friendly as a block of ice.

Unsure what he has done to deserve the silent treatment this time, he keeps his gaze where it is and counts to thirty under his breath. She still doesn't look at him. Exhaling he turns away and follows the example of his team-mates, staring out the window.

And only now do Ziva's eyes turn from the window, falling with strange caution and intensity upon his face.

It only lasts a second – she is now back to looking out the window with such concentration that it's tempting to think he just imagined it – but he saw her reflection, flipped and distorted, off the car window and he knows, _knows_, she looked at him.

And he would give anything, with few exceptions, to find out what exactly was going through her head.

* * *

When they reach NCIS, Gibbs dismisses them home and disappears off, as always, into the deep recesses of the building to do whatever mysterious things he does when he is gone. McGee decides to take a quick trip down to Abby's lab, see if she needed any help with the items from the train scene; and of course, that means Tony is alone with Ziva, and of course, he broaches the subject currently on his mind with his usual boorishness.

"So…nice shot in the train back there," he says. "Or, shots plural."

For a moment, she considers not answering, but she thinks better of it.

"Thanks," she says curtly, conclusively, without looking up from the papers on her desk.

He gets the message, but continues forth anyway.

"Hey, are you all right?" he asks.

"I'm fine." To illustrate her point, she looks Tony in the eye, innocent without missing a beat.

He cocks his head to the side and squints at her.

"No, you're kind of not," he says. "Tell you what, why don't you come over and we can do ice cream sundaes and a Judd Apatow movie. _Knocked Up_, or _40-Year-Old Virgin_, or—"

"I'm sorry, Tony, but I cannot come over tonight," Ziva interrupts, eyes back to her papers. "Maybe another time."

From what little her peripheral vision can tell her, Tony is actually stunned. This is, after all, the first time in a couple of weeks that she has declined him.

But he gathers himself up admirably well and nods profusely.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it, other plans," he says. "That's cool. Maybe another night."

Her smile is apologetic but cool, and her eyes are still averted down, coming up for a peek only when he is safely at his desk, decidedly pink in the face but otherwise unscathed, eyes boring into his computer monitor as though it will do him any good.

Right about now, she calculates, she should feel something. Some colossal guilt or remorse – _some_thing. Something substantial, claustrophobic like she had been yesterday.

But she doesn't feel anything, just numbness – the kind you get when you know that numb is the last thing you should be feeling, when the old adage 'anything is better than nothing' falls on her head like a piano from an open window.

* * *

By the time McGee comes back upstairs, he is astonished to find the picture of productivity where Gibbs' team's office space should be: the clack-clacks from the keyboard and the occasional click of the mouse or the rustle of paper as Tony and Ziva work. McGee beholds the image for a few moments, trying to figure out what could possibly trigger such unprecedented efficiency, but comes up with nothing.

"Hey, so I'm heading out for the night," he announces to no one in particular, walking towards his desk and picking up his things. "I'll see you guys tomorrow."

"I'll come with you," Ziva offers, punching in the last key with emphasis. "I am just about done here."

"Sounds good." McGee's smile is as good-natured and genuine as she could hope for.

Returning it with as much pleasantness as she is capable of, Ziva logs off her computer and picks up her things as well. Tony watches this from over his monitor, curious, as Ziva and McGee leave together. McGee says something inaudible but instantly, Ziva's face lights up into a smile and he finds himself jealous, somehow, even though he's the one she has been sleeping with and he's the one who always makes her laugh and there's nothing to be jealous about anyway, since it's just McGee, just one night she doesn't want to spend with him.

She's entitled to that. There's no contract, no promise she made, that she would spend all her time with him exclusively. She has her own life; he has his. He is being illogical – stupid.

But still. However illogical he is, there is something in him that yearns to have the monopoly on making her smile. And her distance burns. Burns much more than he would care to admit.

Frustrated with her and also himself, he returns to the report, rubbing his aching eyes and wondering vaguely how many extra toppings he should get on the Burger King Whopper he intends to buy on the way home.

* * *

Ziva waits until they approach the parking garage before she asks McGee to get coffee with her. He is somewhat surprised – more so than he should be – but he agrees readily and suggests the coffee shop on Jefferson.

Her stomach tightens, but Ziva nods and tells him she will follow him in her car. McGee doesn't notice, though, and walks off to his car while she walks off to hers. When she sees his lights in her rearview mirror, she reverses out of the spot and glides along behind him, grateful for his steady, predictable driving, the way he said yes and seemed to mean it.

They presently arrive at the coffee shop on Jefferson. There is a small smattering of people inside, spanning maybe four or five tables. McGee opens the door for Ziva and they order their coffee – Ziva, black, and McGee with two milks and one sugar. The girl at the counter asks if they want it to go and McGee says no. He gallantly offers to pay and they sit down at a table by the window.

For a few moments, they are spared the awkwardness by quietly sipping the drinks; but, inevitably, they resurface for air and find themselves there, at the awkwardness, without much to cushion it. McGee clears his throat.

"So…good coffee," he remarks.

"Yes, it is," she says, taking another experimental sip. The hot coffee threatens to burn her tongue.

"Have you been here before?" he asks.

"Once," she admits.

"I like to stop in before or after work sometimes," he says. "It's cheaper than Starbucks…although, not by much."

She chuckles and takes another sip. He taps the pads of his fingers idly on the table.

"So…how are you?" he asks.

"I'm fine, thank you," she responds.

"You sure? You seemed a little…tense…on the way back to NCIS, in the car."

He means well – every square inch of his sweet, earnest eyes screams it – but she can't help resenting him for bringing up exactly the thing she doesn't want to talk about.

"Do not worry about me, McGee," she says as warmly as she can muster. "I'm just fine."

"That's good," says McGee, although he doesn't appear entirely convinced.

Ziva drinks more of her coffee and McGee continues to make brave stabs at conversation, but talking about the case or the coffee or the weather is useless and they both know it. But they indulge it for some time longer because they are both here together – at least until they finish their coffees – and small talk is all they have, all they can maneuver without having to worry about treading in forbidden zones.

Thus it continues, until finally McGee is sick of it and inquires, point blank, "Ziva, why did you ask me out for coffee?"

Ziva freezes somewhat, caught. The implicit question is, of course, why she didn't ask Tony out for coffee – Tony, who has been well-established as her boyfriend – and she has no answer to that question. None that she'd like to offer, anyway.

So she says, quite simply, "Because I needed a friend."

There are many ways to take this response and most of them don't put Tony in a very good light. Soft-hearted as McGee is, his job involves investigation, deduction, and he can see that there is a world of things Ziva isn't saying right now. But, because he is that soft-hearted, he lets it go.

With a nod, he says, "And I'm here for you."

She smiles. "Thank you," she says, her tone somehow meaningful.

"No problem."

McGee polishes off the rest of his coffee in one gulp. Ziva, following his example, does the same. McGee pauses but then relents, asks if Ziva would like to go to a late movie at the theater. Doesn't matter which. She pounces on the opportunity to share his company without actually speaking to him and agrees.

So they toss out their coffee cups in the trash can on the way out and go to the late movie, her car following his to the theatre, the evening swimming in her mind like a dream; she pays for them both without really knowing why and they sit together in the darkened theater-house; and for her, at least, the movie is a pleasant visual backdrop for her swirling, moody thoughts, which run together like a smoothie being blended, a mixture of expressions and sound bites pertaining mostly to one person, so that she sits in the theatre and feels as though her insides really have been blended – as if she is living more lives than just her own, her lines blurring into other lines until all that's left is a big soft blob, belonging to no one.

* * *

A/N: Next chapter should be fun. And watch out for last chapter's events coming back into relevance in the chapter after.

Surprisingly, I have nothing else to say, besides I hope you liked that and please review on your way out.

Cheers.  
X


	21. The L Word

A/N: In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I am posting this chapter and giving thanks to my readers, because I am grateful for the energy you inspire in me and for the things you say that make my day better. Thank you for sticking around.

Now, this is the kind of chapter where my insecure little writer-self is incredibly nervous about several things, among them characterization, level of angst and believability. But it's also the kind of chapter where my insecure little writer-self is shut in the closet with duct-tape for a little while so that the real writer lady in me can do what she damn well pleases, caring for nothing but the next word, the next thought. And, out of that tension and raw creative madness, you get what you get and I hope it works. That's all I can say.

ALSO: I was outlining some more last night and have decided that in the interest of having an ending that feels right and organic, this story will need to end at Chapter 30, which is currently entitled "Game Plan." Just in case you wanted to know.

So…enjoy.  
X

* * *

**XXI. The L Word**

She must rinse him  
She must rinse him  
She can't rinse him  
She can't rinse him  
She can't, she won't, she must rinse him  
She can't, she won't, she must rinse him  
She must rinse this all away  
She can't hold him this way  
She must rinse this all away  
She can't love him this way

- Vanessa Carlton, "Rinse"

* * *

Going home without Ziva – something Tony has done every night of his life until very recently – is a different experience now that he knows what it's like to go home with her.

The ride back is strange when she is not in the seat beside him. He puts on the radio to drown out the silence but it's already been turned to the station she likes. He listens to it for a few minutes, thinking of her, before he gets to a red light and changes the station back to the one _he _likes to listen to on the way home from work. But it gives him less pleasure tonight than it usually does.

He picks up Burger King for dinner, ordering for one, and watches a bit of late night TV before going to bed. And, slipping within the still sheets, he realizes he hasn't had a proper night's sleep since he's been with Ziva, whether it's because they've gone out or watched movies or just had sex for hours and hours, oblivious to anything else.

And he realizes, now that he's alone, that he is actually kind of exhausted in every way he can think of.

So he shuts his brain off, shuts her out, and sleeps. It comes for him almost instantly, and he's out cold until the intrusion of the morning light.

* * *

At work the next morning, Tony struts into the office, more energetic than usual thanks to a good nine hours of sleep. As per his usual routine, he dumps his things on his desk, cracks a joke at McGee, and quotes Tommy Lee Jones. McGee, who is always there earlier than Tony, rolls his eyes and continues to reply to his e-mails. Tony, noticing this, shoots McGee an e-mail with another Tommy Lee Jones quote as the subject line. McGee receives the message and shoots Tony a look over his computer monitor, deleting it without bothering to look inside the message for the large picture of an orangutan leering at the camera.

In the midst of all this, Ziva saunters in, settles down at her desk and says, "Good morning, McGee."

"Good morning, Ziva." McGee's smile breaks like dawn, a stark contrast to what it had been when Tony was sending his Tommy Lee Jones e-mail.

And Ziva's smile is so the same, utterly charming and lovely to see. "How are you?" she asks.

"I'm great, thank you. And you?"

"Great as well." She now presses the power button on her computer and waits for it to warm up, leaning back in her office chair.

She looks pretty, particularly composed, today, because she was in her own apartment for the first time in what feels like a long time, able to choose her outfit at leisure, do her make-up and set her hair in a long, neat braid. And Tony notices this, notices how much more she looks like herself when left at a distance.

But he also notices that she hasn't said anything to him yet this morning.

So he takes initiative and tells her, "Good morning, Zee-vah."

She looks up at him, but there is no spark, no deep affection in her responding smile.

"Good morning, Tony," she says, almost in a purr. Then she's back to what she was doing, as if he hadn't spoken at all.

And, somewhat bewildered, Tony looks from Ziva to McGee and back, wondering what is wrong with the world today.

* * *

The rest of the day goes as it always goes, with a new case and a crime scene and evidence for Abby to analyze. There is a lot to be done, so Tony doesn't get as much of a chance to talk to Ziva; however, this works well for both of them, because she has nothing to say and he knows better than to force anything.

But by the evening, when they are dismissed from the office, and McGee walks out with his usual smile and wave good-bye, and Gibbs has mysteriously melted away to the director's office, he watches her typing something on her computer with anxiety gnawing at his stomach and he realizes that maybe it's time to start forcing things.

So he clears his throat – loudly, obnoxiously, so that he catches her attention and makes her look up – and says, "Hey, just wondering…do you want to go out to dinner tonight?"

There is something of a plea in the way he asks. He tries to hide it – tries to hide that he's actually quite tense and has been working up the nerve to say this all day – but she can tell and his effort softens her.

"All right," she says. "Where do you want to go?"

"Anywhere," he says, relieved at her acquiescence. "Or we can do take-out. Whatever you want."

"Whatever _you_ want," she corrects him. "You can decide and let me know."

"We could go to…Olive Garden," he offers.

"You and your Italian food," she says, rolling her eyes. He is ninety-five percent sure she is kidding, so he laughs.

"Well, you said I could choose," he reminds her.

"I did," she admits.

"So…I'll meet you there? Do you know where it is?"

"I do know where it is," she says. "And yes, I will meet you there."

"If you get there before me, get a table," he tells her.

"All right."

"All right," he repeats. "I'll see you, then."

She nods. "Yes."

And then she turns around without waiting for an answer, slinging her bag over her shoulder and walking towards the elevators without looking back.

* * *

Once seated at the restaurant some twenty minutes later…

"Hey," he says.

"Hey."

"You made it."

"I did."

"Have you been here before?"

"I have not."

"Well, the breadsticks are amazing."

"I will have to try one."

"And the salad. The salad is good too."

"What about the soup?"

"I've never had it."

"I see."

"…"

"Are we going to have an appetizer?"

"Dinner is always huge, so it depends on your appetite."

"Then I suppose we are not."

"I usually don't."

"Okay."

"…"

"…"

"The shrimp looks good."

"It does."

"Do you want to split it?"

"No. I think I will have the mushroom ravioli."

"Okay."

"…"

"…"

"Waiter?"

* * *

By the time dinner has been eaten and the bill is ready to be paid, Tony is quite tempted to bang his head repeatedly upon the tan wall to the left of him.

Asking Ziva to dinner tonight had been a gigantic mistake. She is lousy company, speaking in short, stilted phrases that ring of finality, leaving a lot of awkward silences on his part. And she knows exactly what she's doing, knows that the awkward silences bother him and that he will attempt to fill them, making the situation even more awkward.

Looking at her now, sucking delicately on her spoon, taking in the last stains of sauce on it, he is angry – truly angry with her – for the first time since they started going out.

Something must be done.

So he leaves the money in cash on the table – the card would take too long to process and he can't bear being here with her any longer – and they head outside. She says nothing, determinedly staring out in front of her, past him, away from him.

And, once they are out on the sidewalk in front of Olive Garden, their breath mist around their mouths in the cold, he stops her and asks, "What the hell was that about?"

Something a lot like satisfaction – grim as it is – ignites in the blackness of her irises, so exactly the color of the night sky. "What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean."

"No, I don't know what you mean."

"You've been acting weird for two days now," Tony points out. "You want to talk about it? Maybe tell me what's going on?"

Bitterness wells in an unbearable torrent, churning in her, as she is forced to digest his heated sincerity: her composure melts, desperation mounts, and in a flash she is on him right here on the sidewalk, his shirt in her fist, pulling him and giving him a kiss, fierce and sloppy, her mouth hot and open against his.

When she lets go, he is breathless.

"What was that for?" he inquires.

"Wasn't it what you wanted?" Her intensity – and the implicit insult – sears, cuts through her words like a butcher-knife.

"No," he corrects her in a near hiss. "That isn't what I wanted."

"So what _do _you want?"

"I want exactly what I just asked you for two minutes ago," he clarifies, fighting hard not to shout her, or slap her, or provoke her more than intended. "I want to know what's going on, because we were fine two days ago and now we're not and I'm not really sure why."

The bitterness is back; she can taste it, acrid and thick on her tongue, like syrup.

"You don't understand," she half-mutters, half-moans, holding onto the thin streetlamp pole, her forehead on the cold metal.

"What? What don't I understand?" His voice is closer now.

She can't answer. She can't even look at him. Suddenly, she is so tired she can't bear it, and she's sorry, sorry she ever came with him to dinner, or made him breakfast, or had coffee with him that first night which feels like it happened years ago, or told him her password, or had sex with him, or watched movies with him, or shared anything with him.

She squeezes her eyes shut and then opens them, takes her face away from the streetlight and faces him head-on, because she'd rather die than let him know he has as much pull as he does on her.

And he's there, waiting for her to resurface, so that he can speak again.

"Do you really think you're the only one who could get hurt here, Ziva?" Tony asks her. "That you're the only one who doesn't know what they're doing?"

Her jaw is tight but the words come out anyway, hardened like weathered stones, hitting his ears one by one as they escape her lips.

"We are too far in now," she tells him. "I am done. Let's just…go back to being partners. Back to being whatever we were before this…mistake."

She expects him to be hurt, or upset, or maybe even filled with fury that would finally break. But he's none of these things. A rare mood has come over him – something as hard as her words, as hard as the black thing that sits in her chest and calls itself her heart, gives him a cold practicality she envies.

"We can't just be partners," Tony says. "We can't go backward. It doesn't work like that. I mean, crazy as it is, I…I l-word you."

In spite of herself and the context of this entire evening, she wrinkles her nose with confusion.

"What?"

And now, in spite of everything, he is disarmed as well.

"What do you mean, what?"

"You…l-word me?" Her hands go to her hips. "What is the l word?"

"Oh." At least he has the decency to blush. "Um…"

"Crazy as it is, you…what?" she prompts.

It's like a spotlight has inexplicably lit itself up over his head. He is the only thing in the world for her right now and she's waiting; the mood in which he'd had the courage to say the hardest thing has faltered but she's still waiting, he's still standing here, and there's still a weight over them that they need to relieve before they move on.

People move around them, some of them watching with bewilderment at this strange man and woman saying these personal things on an open sidewalk, but he has to speak and he has to do it now.

So he does. He swallows down all the reasons he has to shut his mouth and walk away and says as bravely as he ever has, "I love you."

She freezes.

She cannot believe he just said that out loud.

The cold has never been colder as it pervades the inside of her open mouth, the inside of her brain as she tries to formulate some response to the very scary thing he has just said to her. But words come and terrible as they are, she has to say them. And she does.

"I…love…you too," she says, so hesitantly, "and that's why it's better if we just…stop now. Before it gets even farther."

She is cruel. She knows she is cruel. She can feel every bit of his confusion and his hurt as she turns slowly on the spot and begins to walk away, because he is justified in feeling the victim.

But this is better for them. It is. And some day – maybe sooner, maybe later – he will come to realize that this, the hardest thing, was the right thing to do.

She will not change her mind, she resolves as the wind cuts her face and makes her eyes water. Enough with this. Enough with them. Gibbs was right – as he always is.

And Tony, Tony is wrong. They can't be lovers, but they can make their way back to being partners.

They have to. There is no choice in the matter.

* * *

A/N: So…that was pretty intense, huh?

But don't worry. Next chapter is appropriately named "Intervention" and this angsty arc will begin giving way to the sweeter one I promised you.

Hope you enjoyed that, then, and that you have a very happy Thanksgiving.

Cheers, & please leave a review on your way out!  
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	22. Intervention

A/N: This chapter I promised you an intervention, and an intervention is what you're going to get.

Maybe last chapter was a bit harsh. A bit crazy. A bit how-the-hell-do-we-go-forward-from-here. But romance does exist in me and I do believe that you can get past stuff so long as you're willing to take the risk and talk, be vulnerable. This chapter – and the chapters after – are rooted deeply in this belief of mine.

Because remember that Tony/Ziva/Rivkin arc? God. If they could survive _that _mess, they can survive anything.

So…go forth, dear readers, and keep letting me know if I'm insane. I will ponder and tweak my outline accordingly.

Cheers.  
X

* * *

**XXII. Intervention**

I wish I could be as cruel as you  
And I wish I could say the things you do  
But I can't and I won't live a lie

No, not this time.

- Kevin Rudolf, "Let It Rock"

* * *

Tony doesn't sleep, after he watches Ziva leave and walks to his car and drives home and pops a can of beer.

He can't sleep. He is swollen inside, overflowing with resentful thoughts, general nastiness. The blanket is too hot, too stifling, when he is in it, but he misses its warmth when he is out of it. It's like a fever, a fever of the mind. That's the only way he can think to put it, even if it's woefully cliché. Clichés have to come from somewhere, after all.

The look on her face won't leave him, as he puts on and turns off his lamp, sips on the beer and tries to get high enough to crash. Because her face was as tight and tortured as he felt then, as he feels now. He'd like to romanticize the situation, convince himself they were empty words she will take back tomorrow when she sees him at work, but that's no good and he knows it.

Ziva doesn't use empty words. She means what she says. She meant it when she said she didn't want to be linked to him more than platonically.

But all that conclusion gets him is more confusion, because the last thing she said to him was that she loved him, and that's why they were better off this way.

She said those plain, explicit words – that she loved him. She has never said that to him before. And he would willingly wager a significant amount of his paycheck that she has only ever said it to a handful of people, if even that.

His better instincts told him to chase her once she began making her way down the street – catch her, make her talk. It wouldn't have been difficult – she wasn't walking very quickly – but he didn't, he couldn't, because he was in shock and she was getting farther away and the distance between them was suddenly daunting.

But now he wishes he had chased her, if only to answer a few more of the wild questions circling his head like aimless, restless birds.

He is not getting any sleep tonight, he figures, glancing at the clock which now reads 3:14 AM. So he whips off the blanket, puts on the lamp and fetches his laptop.

Nothing like some YouTube surfing of cute kitten videos to temporarily relieve a wounded soul.

* * *

By the time the sun is up and it's time to go to work, Tony is in as foul a mood as could be hoped, if only because he spent the whole night sleepless.

It shows, as he trudges into the office, his energy level the exact opposite of the day before, when he was practically bouncing off the wall. And McGee, sitting at his desk and bracing himself for the next movie allusion, notices at once.

"Hey, Tony, are you all right?" he inquires, rolling his desk chair to Tony's desk, expression befuddled.

"Yeah, yeah, McProbie, I'm all right," Tony grumbles with a yawn, turning on his computer.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am," he snaps.

"Obviously." McGee clears his throat and Tony shoots him a look.

"Seriously, I'm fine," says Tony. "I just…needed more sleep last night."

"Why, did Ziva keep you up?" McGee wiggles his eyebrows in a suggestive sort of way.

But Tony doesn't even have the energy for irony.

"Something like that," he mumbles.

McGee retreats back to his own desk, face full of questions he doesn't dare ask, as Ziva walks into the office. At once, Tony looks up, trying to figure if she's had as miserable a night as he has, but to his slight disappointment she doesn't look much different.

She is wearing the same pants as yesterday, and a printed t-shirt, which is more casual than she is most days; her make-up is as impeccable as ever, so her hand was steady and she had plenty of time to get it right; but her hair is loose, crazy curly over her shoulders, not at all the neat braid it was yesterday, and that's suspicious to him, since she generally doesn't leave it so free or untamed.

The only notable thing about her appearance this morning is that her eyes are a little redder than usual.

This could be from a lack of sleep, or the surprise visit of some deeply necessary tears, or just faulty eye-drops, but he feels better believing the former two. The (admittedly unlikely) image of Ziva crying over him gives him a savage sort of pleasure he needs right now.

His eyes are glued to her as she seats herself at her desk and greets McGee, wondering if she'll look at him. His patience is rewarded when she catches his eye for the briefest of moments as she turns her computer on.

Her glance is as ice-queen-esque as he could have hoped for, but those eyes are still red and he takes solace in that as he looks back to his computer screen, logging into his e-mail.

Because red eyes mean that she can still react to things – that if he provokes her in just the right way, she may explode. And he needs to know that in order to get through today.

* * *

When Gibbs walks in some twenty minutes later, he wants theories, and the team promptly jumps to, offering him theories.

"So, we know that Franco was killed between four and five in the morning," Ziva begins, reviewing the file in her hand with a frown of concentration.

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious, Probationary Special Agent David," Tony remarks.

Ziva gives him a Look, but continues, "The killing blow was a knife to the heart, which suggests that the motive was personal."

"She would know _all _about that," Tony says not-so-quietly to McGee, who purses his lips.

"When I was getting statements from the neighbors nearby, they said that Franco was very unpopular," Ziva plows on. "He had few friends and the ones he did, he drove away. They named Trenton Gregory as one of those few. I was looking through his records and he's had a few incidents with assault, indicating a rough temper. We should bring him in."

"We need to find him," Gibbs agrees. "McGee, find and track his cell phone. Dinozzo, any other ideas?"

"Well, boss," says Tony, "I disagree with Probie Agent David over here and say that it was the wife, Emily – as it usually is. I was looking through their credit reports and they were getting behind with their bills. Probably led to a strained relationship and in the heat of the moment, she could have offed him. Partners have a way of turning nasty on you after a while." He clears his throat significantly. "The neighbors also said they'd had a fight earlier, so we should probably investigate her first."

"Fine, take Ziva with you and see what she has to say," says Gibbs, shooing them away with a wave of his hand. "McGee, did you get anything on the cell phone?"

"No, boss, he turned it off," says McGee with a sigh, tapping more buttons.

"We should check his home again, and his work," says Ziva. "Sometimes people just leave their phones off."

"But we need to search for Emily, Probie Agent David," Tony reminds her, a certain nasty edge to the way he snaps it. "Let's do that first."

At last, she catches on, understanding what he's trying to do here. He can see the enlightenment in her jaw, which tightens, and her hands, which go directly her hips as if she's in battle mode.

"The best friend is much more likely," she insists, even though she knows he has a point about the wife and the credit report.

"No, the wife is," he says, as though explaining it to someone very slow, even as he knows she's not wrong. "She lived with him; and clearly, he's a bit off his nut if he doesn't have any friends, so maybe he did to her what he did to them and it was one time too much and she stabbed him. Crime of passion."

"People don't do that with knives," Ziva insists. "Knives are more personal, as I already said. The motive would have to be very strong and I think it is stronger in the friend than in the wife. The wife would have wanted it done faster. Knives are messy."

"Wives are brutal," says Tony.

"Friends are more so," counters Ziva.

He smirks significantly at her, the double meaning he took from her comment obvious; and she narrows her eyes until they're slits, black like death. McGee watches with mixed fear and fascination, but now it is that Gibbs bangs his fist on his desk with a hurricane force.

"Enough!" Gibbs shouts, making all three agents jump. "Now, come with me."

He storms in the direction of the elevator, his preferred spot for a secret meeting. Not looking at one another, Tony and Ziva follow, curious but also significantly nervous. Gibbs looks too much like an executioner standing in the elevator, all angles and seriousness. The two step in and the elevator goes until Gibbs hits the emergency switch, making it screech to a halt, bathing all three in ghostly blue light.

"Look, I don't know what's going on between you two right now, but I need to make myself very, very clear," says Gibbs, the taut power in his voice enough to make the tiny hairs on their necks stand on edge. "This unnecessary bickering is exactly why I have Rule 12 in place. But you're not in here for breaking that; you're in here for breaking what I expressly told you not to break, which is Rule 1. Now, you have two options – one is to stay here in this elevator and figure out how to do your damn jobs, and the other is to leave this elevator and begin writing up your resignation forms, _both_ of you, because there is no room for distraction here. Understood?"

"Yes," she murmurs.

"Yes," he says, a little louder.

"Good." Grimly, Gibbs eyes the both of them like an x-ray and presses the emergency notch again, as well as the button for their floor. The elevator glides back obediently and Gibbs steps out. Tony looks to Ziva and Ziva looks to Tony and silently, they stay in the elevator.

Tony presses the button for the top floor and then hits the emergency notch. The blue light returns, making her look eerie, making them both look eerie. She searches him for signs of starting, of going first, but his mouth is resolutely closed and his eyes tell her that she's the one who owes him words.

She clears her throat.

"Well, you cannot say he is wrong," she points out.

"What, about Rule 12?" he asks.

"Yes," she says. "This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. Congratulations; now we are both about to lose our jobs."

"Well, that's what comes naturally to me," he retorts. "My immaturity shouldn't rile you up; we're just partners now, right? I shouldn't matter to you at all."

For a moment she looks fragile – but only for a moment.

"You are being childish and petty," she informs him. "Do you _want _to lose your job?"

"What I want is what I wanted last night – an explanation," he says. "We were doing just fine until then."

"We were not!" she suddenly explodes, as he'd hoped she would. "I told you, we were too far in—"

"What does that mean, anyway? Too far in?" Tony interrupts.

"I shot that man on the train when he could have been reaching for a piece of gum," Ziva states, tone dark but quivering slightly.

He blinks; he is honestly taken aback.

"You mean, _that's _what you were so upset about?" he says, incredulous. "That guy on the train that you shot?"

"And you're _not _upset?" she snaps back, her hands right to her hips again. "He could have been an innocent civilian—"

"Ziva, come on," says Tony, everything about him so much lighter now that he knows the reason behind the madness. "Your instincts are better than that and you know it. You wouldn't have shot him if there wasn't a reason for it. Besides, you would have done that for any of us if we were with you on that train – Gibbs, McGee, Abby, anyone. It doesn't mean anything about you and me."

It's such an easy, appealing answer when he puts it like that – tempting in its complete dismissal of what she did – but she doesn't bite. She still looks worried.

"You should not be so casual about this," she tells him. "We could screw up again, worse next time, and really lose our jobs. I don't want that."

She expects him to reason, to argue. But he doesn't.

Instead, he asks her, "Do you trust me?"

Now it is her turn to blink, taken aback.

She hates this question, hates the black-and-white nature of it, how it disregards the vast valley of gray where she so often lies. But he has asked it and now he wants an answer, something she can't begrudge him, standing here in this tiny enclosed space with him, trying to keep her job. Her face crumples.

And after a long pause, she murmurs sorrowfully, "You have always been too easy to trust."

He is perplexed. "And that's a…bad thing?"

She looks him in the eye, all of a sudden vulnerable like she was the night they watched _Titanic_, broken down to something stunning and raw and elemental, far too personal for this little blue-lit elevator at work.

"Because then I trust you to keep loving me when I am impossible, even though I do not trust this to last," she says.

She hates the words even as they come out of her mouth, hating their truth and their weakness and the location, hating the way it goes against the resolve she thought was so strong last night.

She is out of her comfort zone. She wants to disappear. She doesn't deserve him and she's known that for years; and in the time it takes him to gather his thoughts, the earth could have exploded and cooled and exploded again; and she hopes to whoever is listening that he will just back off now, let her go as she'd always assumed he would; but he elates and disappoints her again:

"Well, I want to trust you, and you want to trust me, so…what's the problem?" he says. "Let's go back to work and maybe go to dinner later."

It's not that simple and they both know it. But as he flips off the emergency notch and brings the elevator back down to their floor, coming out to the office again and taking their seats under Gibbs's watchful gaze, Tony understands better than Ziva does that sometimes, talking is enough. That proving her wrong by persisting when she least expects him to is what will change the cycle she has known all her life. That trusting her is the best thing he could do for her right now.

He is a little dizzy, a little woozy, as her words keep echoing in his head, but he is reasonably happy with how this one ended.

It was not, perhaps, a permenant fix; but it's enough for now. And given the circumstances, that's about all he can hope for.

* * *

A/N: So…yeah. My rationale for what feels a little like a quick-fix is basically the third-to-last paragraph – that in order to make things work, you have to trust when trusting is the last thing that makes sense. & don't worry, Ziva will be swallowing her pride a bit more in the next few chapters, so it's not like Tony's the only one trying. A relationship is hard work and it involves sacrifice on both parts; and I trust these characters to do what is necessary, in their clumsy way.

This is the only way forward that made sense to me, so I hope it made sense to you (although, feel free to let me know if it didn't) & that it worked.

Cheers, then, folks; please review on your way out.  
X


	23. Reciprocation

A/N: Sorry, sorry, it's been a few days. Not many days, but I've got you spoiled. Anyway, I'm back now, and will probably finish up KH (with minor delays like this one) as I avoid studying for finals, and there you have that.

So…that nicer stuff I've been promising you? It starts here. I'm kind of excited, if only because it means this story will be over soon. I can feel my muse starting to get distracted and a bit restless. _Kaleidoscope Heart_ has been really fun to write, but my attention span is unpredictable; I do not often write much more than a one-shot these days. So feel special – you've inspired me to go a lot further than I ever intended.

NOTE: After Ziva's apartment got blown up, I don't think we ever went there again on the show, so I'm making her apartment up like I made up Tony's. If we did go there and I'm dead wrong, then please, go with the flow and don't tell me.

This chapter falls into the mindless-fluff category of things but I hope you like it anyway.

Cheers.  
X

* * *

**XXIII. Reciprocation**

You've had a hard time  
Livin' with a hard heart  
You hardly feel a thing  
And you don't know where to start

It won't go away  
It's comin' after you all day  
You're surrounded  
When you look at me that way  
I don't ever think to say  
But I just found it…

- Dawn Landes, "Drive"

* * *

Fortunately, after Gibbs's intervention, the rest of the workday goes rather smoothly.

Once the two return from the elevator, McGee – perhaps too afraid to say anything else – offers to go with Ziva and find the wife. Tony graciously reminds McGee that he is senior field agent and will accompany Ziva to find the wife. Gibbs snaps irritably at them, tells them that _someone _needs to find that wife – _now _– so Tony and Ziva scamper. McGee retreats to his desk to get a trace on that cell phone.

It turns out that the wife is unreachable. She is not at home or at work. The neighbors have not seen her since the day before, giving Tony's wife theory some credit. Ziva calls Gibbs and Gibbs tells them to talk to Trenton Gregory, leave searching for the wife up to McGee and his computer.

By the time evening falls, Emily has still not been found and therefore wins a role as their top suspect.

At nine thirty, Gibbs makes a round to Abby's lab and then goes to M-TAC, so McGee, Tony and Ziva take this to mean their dismissal for the day and begin packing up. McGee leaves first – as always – and Tony dawdles while Ziva packs up, so that by the time she is done, they are alone and he can ask her, "So…do you want to have dinner tonight?"

"Yes, I intend to eat dinner tonight," Ziva responds, smirking.

"Funnily enough, so do I," says Tony, just pleased that she seems to be in a good mood. "Want to do it together at my place?"

But then she shocks him.

"No," she says.

"No?"

"No," she repeats.

He can't help feeling hurt; he thought they had been doing well after the intervention this morning.

"Okay…"

He attempts to come up with a suitable response to this, but then she shocks him again by explaining, "Because I want you to come to my place tonight."

Something leaps inside his abdominal cavity – something with wings that flutters freely through him.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously." Her smile is mischievous, but strangely sweet – coy – inviting him in rather than pushing him away, for a change.

"Sure," he says, grinning as freely as the winged creature purring in his stomach. "I'd…I'd like that."

Her pleasure is quiet but conspicuous if he knows where to look: she smiles and the two of them fall in-step, walking together towards the elevator.

Once inside, she asks, "What do you want for dinner?"

"Whatever you want," he says. "I mean, I'm good with anything. Fast-food, take-out—"

"I was going to cook," she tells him, suddenly a little hesitant. "I've had enough of take-out."

His grin is enthusiastic, but perplexed. She notices.

"Why, do you not want me to cook?" she asks.

"No, no, it's not that," he says. "It's just…you volunteered to cook for me. You've never done that before."

"I made you breakfast once," she points out. "Besides, we are going to go broke if we always go out. I have little faith in your culinary skills – with good reason – so mine will have to do."

The elevator doors open.

"I know where you are parked; stay in your spot and I will come for you," she says. "Then you can follow me."

"Stalker," he teases.

She spares him a challenging smirk but otherwise walks out of the elevator and toward the parking garage without another a glance back.

And, shaking his head with disbelief and levity, he walks out behind her as well.

* * *

Driving back with Ziva in the lead is not an experience Tony intends to repeat, after this first time.

Never, ever again.

Despite knowing that Tony is a much safer driver than she, Ziva still takes care to speed, catch yellow lights at the very last second and refuse to wait for him while he waits for the light to change. Several times, he gets lost and has to call her on her cell phone, praying she'll pick up and give him the right directions.

She does, but her constant laughter at his expense gets considerably grating.

When he finally makes it to an ordinary-looking brick apartment building, he is out-of-breath and astonished that he is still alive. He tells Ziva so as they park side by side and head inside. Ziva merely smirks.

"Oh, man up, Tony," she says. "You would not survive one day on the streets of Israel."

He has no response to this; he merely glowers at her and she takes them to the fourth floor, extremely pleased with herself.

Her apartment is at the end of the hall. She pulls out her key and has the door open much faster than any normal person should. With flourish, she opens the door and allows him to walk in first – and he does, senses instantly on the alert, wondering what he will find.

In Ziva's old apartment – for the brief seconds he was allowed to look around before Michael Rivkin took matters into his own hands – he had seen simple furnishings, a few pictures, and absolutely no mess. That was how she was then.

But this apartment reflects a slightly different personality. The furnishings are still simple, but she has a few plants around – all of them real, none of the fake ones. Her TV is a plasma, much to Tony's approval; he had been expecting some dinosaur television, or worse, no television. And she has a bowl of fruit sitting on the counter. There are still few pictures – these mostly of Gibbs' team from the NCIS camera – but there is more artwork, a couple of small pottery pieces, and he has a hard time getting the mental image in his head of Ziva walking sedately through aisles at a department store pushing a cart, looking for these things.

Ziva grins as she watches Tony inspect the place, leaning against the counter as she gets out drinks for two. She sips on hers and asks, "So what do you think?"

"I think it's nice," says Tony genuinely, examining a vase that sat on a side table. "Your movie collection is deplorable, though."

She laughs. "I thought you would say that," she says, with a trace of real affection.

"Come on, it's only two measly shelves under your TV!" he says, gesturing to the offending shelves in question. "That's just sad, Ziva."

"You will have to help me expand it," she says, holding out his drink to him.

"I will certainly have to," he says, accepting the drink and taking down half of it with a single gulp.

She remains where she is but he keeps prowling, keeps exploring, and she figures it would be best to just let him get it out of his system. He pokes around a bit more and then starts.

"You have a record player?" he asks, astonished, pointing to the thing in question.

"I do," she confirms.

"That's cool." He flips through her records – mostly Israeli with titles in Hebrew, so he doesn't understand what any of them say – and eyes the player with interest. "I haven't seen one of these around in a long time – you know, since technology improved and we got iPods."

"I have an iPod too," Ziva reminds him, "but the record player is a classic."

"Are these from your…old place?" he asks, with significant delicacy so that she knows he remembers what happened there.

"No," she admits. "But I found it at an antique store. It reminded me of home."

He nods, understanding this, and pulls out a particularly offensive orange-colored record case. Remembering how to work the record player from his early childhood days, he puts the disc in its spot and starts the needle on the first song. To his surprise, it works well – a slightly scratchy but bouncy, Middle-Eastern-sounding tune fills the little living room almost immediately.

She laughs at the sound of it, at the way he starts swaying half-exaggeratedly and half-seriously with the beat.

"Fun stuff," he remarks.

"Yes," she agrees, her smile as genuine as he's ever seen it. "I have always liked this one."

He wiggles his eyebrows in a suggestive way and holds his hands out to her, still shaking his hips, looking more like a fourteen-year-old boy at Homecoming than a grown man in his girlfriend's living room. And she, utterly charmed, gives him her hands and lets him clasp his fingers firmly around hers, making a little web of flesh interlaced together.

He pulls her into him, celebrating her warmth and her smell, vaguely like spicy vanilla, and the way she lets him lead her, twirl her, treat her like a woman rather than a bomb primed to go off. He hums along with the tune, lips close and breath hot against her ear, cheek skimming the top of her wild curly hair. His hands separate from hers so that they rest on the small of her back, weight that is welcomed for once.

And then she begins to hum along with him, three voices in harmony for several beautiful seconds, but then mid-phrase she whispers in his ear, "I am going to make tacos."

"Sounds good," he whispers back.

She releases his hand and smiles crookedly at him, which he reciprocates in a goofy love-drunk kind of way; and then she is gone, suddenly standing in the kitchen, starting up the stove and searching her fridge for supplies. He follows her in and sits on the counter, watching with interest. The music continues to play behind them.

"Do you want help with that?" Tony asks, bouncing his heel against the cabinet below.

Ziva snorts. "We are probably better off if you don't come anywhere near here," she says, quickly marinating the pre-packaged taco meat with spices from a drawer.

"I could…chop onions or something," he suggests as she puts the meat into a pan on the stove. "I'm a regular Edward Scissorhands with vegetables."

"Edward who?"

Tony groans. "Edward Scissorhands," he repeats. "A Tim Burton classic, starring Johnny Depp. Another movie we're going to have to watch."

"You American people make too many movies, Tony," Ziva complains as she chops the onions herself with admirable deftness. "It seems you have an endless supply of allusions to make and I cannot stand it."

"Well, you're technically an American now, so you're part of the problem," Tony points out, slipping off the counter to his feet again and grabbing a knife to start with the bell-peppers she is laying out. "The movies are made for you too."

She rolls her eyes and pulls out flat-bread for the taco shell. "How many do you want?" she asks, shaking a piece of flat-bread in his face with one hand and opening the waiting toaster oven with the other.

"Two for each of us," he says. "But keep the rest out in case either of us gets hungrier."

"Fine."

She obliges and it's quiet for a moment, except the record player, which changes from the upbeat track to a moodier, quieter one. She listens a while as the onions and the bell-peppers Tony has sliced sizzle in their pan alongside the meat pan, humming along and occasionally singing a few words – a little off-key but sweet, almost to herself. Tony finds himself delighted he has been entrusted with this, the rare pleasure of her singing voice.

So he, too, listens a while as the taco supplements cook and he refills his drink from the fridge. She asks if he can refill hers too and he does, feeling the coolness against the side of the glass as he hands it to her. She takes a sip and puts it down on the counter beside her, poking tenderly at the meat to see if it's done.

And, watching her watch the food with such concern, he pulls her into him from her waist; and, in a flash, she is facing him and squeezing his hand tightly; and, somehow, they are dancing again, even though the moody song continues and another moody one replaces it; and she laughs and he wants to kiss her, but he doesn't.

Instead, he keeps dancing with her, this time letting her lead, twirling all around the tiny kitchen, bare feet on the cool tile, warm hands tightly held together.

At least, they dance until suddenly, the meat gives an ominous sizzle and she rushes to turn off the stove, assess the damage. He peers over her shoulder to watch.

She shoves her elbow into his stomach in the time it takes him to blink.

"Ouch! What was that for?" Tony yelps.

"For distracting me and almost ruining our dinner," Ziva informs him.

For a moment, Tony is tempted to tell her that her distraction was the downfall to the breakfast she so often teases him about, and that her response to it was saying he was a terrible cook, but he subsides, figuring they're even.

Thus satisfied, Ziva pulls the flat-bread out of the toaster oven and gets two plates out of the cabinet.

"Bon appetit," she says with flourish as she gives him one.

"Merci," he says, accepting the plate.

She gets out spoons to scoop out the meat, onions and bell-peppers. "Do you want cheese?" she asks as she searches her fridge for it.

"Sure," he says.

"Lettuce? Tomatoes?"

"Bring it on," he says in some funny, probably movie-related accent she can't place.

"Okay," she says. "And…I'm guessing no jalapenos?"

"God no," he says, shuddering. "After that performance at Denny's? I can't look at them anymore without feeling sick."

"Sissy," she teases, taking a jalapeno pepper out of the fridge and dangling it in front of his face.

He scowls at her and licks the jalapeno.

"There. Now you have to eat it," he tells her like a pouting fourth-grader.

Her eyes sparkle with impishness. "As you wish."

And as he watches agog, she proceeds to lick the jalapeno in the same place and then bite it, spice exploding in her mouth and stinging her throat as it goes down.

He grimaces once the slight shock wears off.

"You can eat jalapenos for both of us," he assures her.

She plants a spicy jalapeno kiss on his cheek.

"I can do that," she says.

"I believe you."

He goes to the fridge and takes out the cheese for himself. She sets him to work shredding it for them both and makes quick work of the tomatoes, slicing them up as if they were clouds. Then they help each other take all the taco dressings to the kitchen table, where they settle in and begin to eat.

Predictably, the tacos end up delicious, but it's not just dinner that gets to him, as he talks and she listens: it's her, everything about her.

How she sits angled on her chair, her elbow on the table and the taco oozing out the back end; how she let him coax off a piece of stray cheese that clung to her lower lip with his thumb; how she listens, really listens, when he talks and how she tells him about the dream she had last night, which is more than he could have hoped for two days ago.

This is her world, sitting in this apartment that smells like her, with the dinner she made with him in mind, and she's letting him into it. She's wary of him – she's always been wary of him – but something has given way in the course of the past two days.

Because tonight, they trespass on her hospitality rather than his; and when dinner is over and they have watched a little TV and later they retreat to bed, it's_ her_ mattress groaning under them – her sheets they tangle in, her pillows they sink into, her room surrounding them, her walls quietly witnessing their love-making.

She is soft, softer than she's ever been, in more ways than he cares to count, as they strip down and surrender to each other under her ceiling. But it's a good kind of soft – not weak but malleable, as though there's room for change, for something more than quiet in this apartment that has never seen as much life as it has tonight.

And the possibility, the promise of newness, is enough to carry him sweetly to morning.

* * *

A/N: Many apologies for this muse of mine. Even with an outline, she's like, "No, I don't feel like writing anymore, Zay. I just want to troll YouTube and be happy." So she grudgingly gave me this chapter and I'm hoping she will recover soon enough to give me another one. Dealing with her can be excruciating, you know.

So I hope you liked this and that you will review (because my muse and I both enjoy that).

Cheers.  
X


	24. The Reason Why

A/N: Mission accomplished – muse's ass has been duly kicked and now she's like, "Okay, okay, where's the outline?" That lady is_ crazy_, I tell you.

So…this chapter and the next one are probably my favorites conceptually in the whole story. They are the ones I've desperately wanted to write but haven't. So I sincerely hope that they work and that you like them.

RANDOM: It just recently came to my attention that for some reason, the site toggled off my option for PMs. So if you tried to send me one but couldn't, I'm sorry, and it's been fixed now.

Cheers.  
X

* * *

**XXIV. The Reason Why**

I'll show you mine if you show me yours first  
Lets compare scars, I'll tell you whose is worse  
Lets un-write these pages and  
Replace them with our own words

If love is a labor, I'll slave 'til the end  
I won't cross these streets until you hold my hand

- Rise Against, "Swing Life Away"

* * *

In the morning, Tony blinks sunshine out of his eyes and is at first gripped by panic, stomach twisting, breath scarce, shockwaves palpably radiating through him, because this is _not _his room and where is he and God, what is he doing here?

Fortunately, it only takes one glance to his left to calm the anxiety and remind him what the situation is.

He is at Ziva's place. He had dinner with her here – homemade tacos. And then he stayed the night for the very first time. Pleasure replaces the recent confusion as he remembers her warning him that the bed creaks sometimes on his side; even more comes as he looks back to his left, at her, and finds that she is awake, staring at the ceiling, apparently deep in thought.

He wonders vaguely how long she has been awake, but more than that he wonders what she's thinking about.

So he clears his throat and asks her, "What are you thinking about?"

She jumps at the sound of his voice – she had previously assumed he was asleep – and turns her head to face him straight on. Her expression is heavily guarded for several seconds – suspicious, even – as she determined whether or not to speak.

But to her credit, she chooses to speak.

"I was wondering why you ever took initiative with me," she says, so frankly and so simply that he has to blink several times, digest each word separately and put them together, in order to believe them.

"Kinda heavy for a weekday morning," he remarks out of sheer astonishment.

But she's in a rare mood right now, raw and contemplative, and even as the words leave his mouth, he realizes they were the wrong things to say. She is too tender, this window into her mind too rare, to tease her. He tries to take it back and finds that she is already ahead of him.

"I'm quite serious, Tony," she says, turning her head back to where it was so that she is talking to the ceiling. "You know how I feel – so why are you here?"

Personally, he still thinks it's too early to have this conversation – he just woke up, for goodness' sake – but this is clearly a question that needs an answer and she is giving him the unique opportunity to provide one. It is not a circumstance to be wasted.

He clears his throat again.

"I'm here because I want to be," he says. "I've…always wanted to be."

She is silent for several minutes then, still staring at the ceiling. And just when the awkwardness gets to be unbearable, and he is about to say something, she beats him to it.

"I almost asked you out myself several times," she says quietly, almost to herself. "But then I didn't."

This intrigues but doesn't surprise him. "Why didn't you?"

She ponders, but this answer doesn't take as long to produce: "Because we would mess it up."

In spite of himself, he snickers.

"We are both pretty good at that," he admits.

His eyes flick towards her again and he finds, to his surprise, that instead of being hurt, or smirking with humor, she just looks wistful – sad, even – her gaze fixed to the ceiling still as though it will come down on her and cover her, or give her some answer to some question she never even asked.

But the ceiling can't give her anything and she knows it. He knows it too. So he stretches his arm out a little, intending to touch her hair or hold her hand; but she surrenders to his arm, scooting over so that she's right up against his side, her head resting on his bicep; and he willingly holds her because while unexpected, her weight is warm and comfortingly solid beside him – and because he just likes to hold her, likes to let her need him.

She makes him brave – both on and off the field. In a funny sort of way, she inspires him, makes him try harder whether he wants to prove her right or wrong. With any other girl, the love affair would probably have been over by now; but her seriousness and the extraordinary charm she possesses when she suppresses her more murderous impulses have kept him here, fiercely fighting for her in a way he scarcely imagined for himself.

And seeing her cuddled up beside him, feeling her breathing against his bare chest, so acutely aware of her heartbeat, the rise and fall of her chest, he is inspired again to be brave.

So, hesitantly, he breaks the silence and admits with only the slightest tremor in tone, "You know, that's why it sucked so much when I ended it with Jeanne – because I figured that while I was good at screwing things up before, I wouldn't screw them up with her. And then I did and I realized that I hadn't changed much at all – because I'd told her I loved her and I didn't follow through."

She takes a moment to process this statement.

"You are too hard on yourself," she says. "You have changed – for the better, I think, even if the impulses for juvenile pranks, movie allusions and being ridiculous are still in place."

Tony smiles slightly at this, but it's steely, because talking about Jeanne always reawakens the overwhelming bitterness he had worked so hard to repress, once they had broken up.

And Ziva notices, because hesitantly, she too breaks the silence and admits with only the slightest tremor in tone, "I felt the same about Michael though – that I didn't follow through. I liked him, thought I trusted him, but then he died at your hands and you were the one I thought about, not him. Instead of caring for him as we both thought I did, I let your betrayal hurt me more than his death."

She doesn't look at him as her voice trails off, but he looks at her and something powerful threatens to leap out of his chest and swallow him whole. He half-wishes he had had his phone on him to record this conversation – abrupt, unexpected and deeply personal as it is – so he could have access to this mood, these words that she has never graced him with, and analyze it again and again and again until he can convince himself that it's real. Absently, his fingers tangle themselves in her curls.

"I don't want to leave you, you know," he tells her, cheek on top of her hair.

But she sighs. "You never do in the beginning."

And then she looks up at the same time he looks down, eyes locking in; and he sees her cynicism, her doubt, the rubble others have left behind, peering out at him from behind her dark eyes; and she sees the way he genuinely wants things to be different for them, even if he has no idea how that will work itself out; and he suddenly, belatedly, realizes that her face is quite lovely in this morning light, bringing out the rich chocolate browns in her hair and her irises.

So he does the only thing that makes sense: he pretends that they don't have to go to work today and kisses her as if they have eternity here in her bed. Her lips are pliant and he tries to kiss away some of that cynicism and doubt and rubble; and she lets him, lets them both try to save her.

Because that's the real reason why he's here: he knows almost as well as she does that he is the only one left who has a chance at doing it.

* * *

A/N: This chapter was short, but important, I think. The next one hasn't been decided yet length-wise but is also important – if anything, more so than this one. I recommend being excited.

I also recommend reviewing this one, because I really do like to know what you think, particularly as we get into these fluffier scenes that I am less comfortable writing.

So… do that. A few words will suffice. Button's right there.

Cheers.  
X


	25. Shedding Skin

**XXV. Shedding Skin**

Well, you have suffered enough  
and warred with yourself,  
it's time that you won

- Glen Hansard, "Falling Slowly"

* * *

Ziva can feel the rays of the desert sun on her back like anvils, pushing on her bones and making her hair, her clothes, her socks, stick to her as if they have been glued to her every skin cell. She can see the camp out ahead of her, but the sun – or maybe her head – makes it hazy, makes it swim in front of her eyes instead of staying still. She squints and she coughs and kicks up a cloud of dust.

Flash.

She can see him on the boat, feel him up against her in the cabin, his Marine dog-tag glinting with his sweat in the semi-light. And then she can see him dead, lifeless, on the floor – because that happened to him and she was responsible for it, she was, she was—

Flash.

She can feel the sting of the slap on her cheek that almost took the wind out of her. Her mouth is thick and gluey and she has to work her tongue around for several seconds to swallow properly. She needs water and she needs to lie down and she is bound, this chair is too hot, this room is too hot, this world is too hot – and God, he's coming again, and she tries to muster the strength to say a prayer in Hebrew, even just in her head, but he's yelling something and she gets another slap and she cries out, even though she's numb and feels nothing, just because she wants to remember that she's still alive.

"Ziva!"

There is a layer of sweat on his leering face as he looms over, his rancid desert breath like a swarm of dying flies around her nose; and there is a glint in his eyes that she doesn't like, that's been there since he first raked his eyes over her body and gathered information he seemed to enjoy having.

"Ziva!"

And then there are hands on her, hands on her, hands touching her and grasping at her and trying to keep her down. She tries to scream but there isn't enough moisture in her mouth to make a sound higher than a swollen whisper; she tries to fight the hands, but she has to fight exhaustion too.

"Ziva!"

She tries, she tries; she kicks, she flails; she musters all the strength in her to scream and maintain her frenzied limbs, but she is bound and there's little she can do and she's never been so scared in all her life and those hands, those hands, those hands—

"ZIVA!"

Something gives and Ziva's eyes snap open, overflowing with terror.

There are still hands on her, and for a moment she almost goes insane where she lays, inhuman shrieks escaping her mouth as she prepares herself to die; but then she blinks and suddenly, she realizes it's Tony's face above her, Tony sitting on her legs, Tony calling out to her – and that the hands on her are only Tony trying to reach her, trying to wake her up from her personal hell.

His nose is bleeding freely, she sees now, but his eyes glow with almost preternatural intensity, and his hands are holding hers so tightly that it hurts him.

"Ziva, you're all right," he tells her, breathless, as if this is all he's been saying for some time now. "Ziva…"

Her name sounds like a blessing on his lips. Her chest heaves, up and down, up and down, all the oxygen around her not enough to quench her need; and she tries to calm her hands and her feet – which have evidently thrashed the blanket to a pulp – but she finds that she tenses up and shakes uncontrollably, unable to calm anything.

"Tony…"

She finds her voice enough to say his name, but he rests his weight a little further into her legs to stop their movement and he moves his hands from hers to her face, cupping her cheeks in a way that strikes her as unbelievably loving, intimate.

"You're right here," he reminds her. "We're at my place. You're just fine. No one's trying to hurt you."

He is breathless, but so calm. Too calm. And hearing his calmness begins calming her too, brings her back. The scene rematerializes as her memory retrieves images from the evening – from work, from the case, from Tony and the restaurant they went to for dinner and that they didn't have sex afterwards and then falling asleep beside him in his bed.

Tony is right; she is fine. She is in his bedroom, and he is sitting on her, his red boxers visible in the dark, and she's kind of stopped shaking now, down to mere tremors. Her breathing is a bit slower too, not as dangerously fast as before. She can hardly feel her lips, knowing only that her mouth is open and that air is passing through it and that it's bone-dry. Dry like the desert. Like _that _place.

She squeezes her eyes shut in an attempt to give in to blackness, but all she can see is the black of _his _eyes. Panic flares. She opens her eyes and Tony fills her view again, sweet Tony with the goofy smile that has currently been replaced by pursed lips emanating worry.

"Ziva?" He tucks her hair behind her ear, his fingers warm against her flesh. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Water," she gasps.

"Stay here," he orders, as if she is any state to move, let alone go someplace.

Exhausted, she nods and he relieves his weight from her legs, getting up out of bed to go to the kitchen. She can hear his footsteps going to the fridge; she can hear him put on the tap and fill a glass; she can hear him coming back. She sits up and hugs her knees and tries to focus on his eyes, because they are the only eyes that don't make her skin crawl right now.

He is back in the space of seconds, holding the water. He makes the motion to hold it to her mouth for her, but she is recovered enough to find this embarrassing and takes the water for herself. She can feel every drop on her parched throat and she is ravenous for it; she drinks it in one greedy gulp and he silently takes it from her, goes to the bathroom next door to refill it.

He brings it back and this time she drinks it slower, daring herself to make it last. It washes the sticky out of her mouth, leaving her cool, refreshed, properly alive, no longer hot and crazy. The arch of his eyebrows asks if she wants more, but she shakes her head. He puts the glass on his bedside table.

She meets his eyes and she can see the concern in him. Now that she is hydrated and thinking clearly, she is fully embarrassed.

Tony has never known about the nightmares. They used to be common – every night in the beginning unless she self-medicated and put herself out for the night – but they are much rarer now. Honestly, Ziva had almost forgotten about them herself.

Until tonight, that is.

That godforsaken place will haunt her dreams until the day she dies.

She fights for composure, for maybe a little drowsiness, but she is wide awake now and she knows it. And she's still shaking. Little shakes, but shakes nonetheless. And Tony sees them. Tony sees everything right now, laid out in front of him like a jumbo color-coded map of the world. But he is inscrutable, for once; she cannot penetrate the emotion that surely must be churning in him too.

Her emotions are fairly easy to guess by one glance at her usually tight features. Fear; shock; horror. Some remorse. He isn't sure but can guess what she was probably dreaming about and it saddens him, saddens him to the point where he could slowly bleed to death one drop at a time, knowing she's been through far worse than she would ever tell him.

Without thinking, he scoots next to her and wraps his arm around her, shifts her to his lap and gathers her up against his collarbone. At first, she tenses, as though she's about to hit him; but then she crumbles and he is there to hold her, rocking slightly, as though comforting a small child.

Her tears brim. She hates them – hates their weakness, hates that he can call them out so much easier than anyone else can – but a couple of them spill onto his chest. Particularly when she glances up at him and realizes that his nose is still full of blood, some of which has traveled down his chin and neck.

She must have done that to him when she thought he was trying to kill her. Guilt ignites, searing hot, in her gut because she didn't mean to hurt him. She's sorry; she almost tells him so. But he catches her looking up at the wound.

Stroking her hair with a firm reassurance, he uses his free hand to mop up the blood with the collar of his shirt. Then he gently shifts her again so that her head is against his chest, near enough to his heart that she can hear it beating faintly in the quiet beneath his bones. And she focuses on the sound, as though it'll do something to save her.

He is as patient as the earth, holding her there. A minute later, he tugs on the blanket and covers her with it. Despite the warmth of his body, she needs it – she's just wearing one of his thin t-shirts and a pair of her own shorts that she had brought with her – and she lets it protect her, lets it help her.

All the while, she undergoes the peculiar sensation of shedding skin – of letting the layers go.

The layer of distance that she maintains between them, despite the sex; the layer of self-control that has always kept her demons at bay; the layer of practicality that has her thinking about the next moment rather than burying herself in the current one. They fall away from her one by one, as she lets him hold her. She feels empty, unreal, as if she has just thrown up something toxic and the darkness that squashed her internal organs has lifted, leaving them free for the first time, unsure of all the space they suddenly have to spread out.

She has gone to a lot of trouble never to fall this far; but all it takes is a nightmare and Tony Dinozzo and she's sitting on her ass at the bottom of the well, her rear end damp with the wind on her hair, wondering when the foundation fell through and if she could have stopped it, suspended herself above the floor any longer.

Some time ago, she would have been repulsed by her weakness, by the way that she not only felt it but let it show; but these are different times and in this night, in his room, with his wonderful humanity enveloping her like he is, she can do nothing but surrender.

It might be minutes; it might be hours. They never speak – he never asks the questions and she never gives the answers – but he stays with her through all of it, solid, unmoving. And it's in his arms that the night fades and she finally falls asleep, still sitting in his lap, her head still on his chest, her arms around his neck and his arms around her waist.

And it's cradled around her that sleep finally comes for him too, forcing him to lie back with her lying half on him, half off him, sprawled across the mattress, his hand on hers, loosely connected but connected all the same.

* * *

This time when Tony wakes up, it is not to Ziva screaming bloody murder in his ear or to Ziva punching his nose in with her frightened fist: it is to sunshine, coaxing his eyelids awake, and to the smell of breakfast cooking, and to the thought fluttering into his head like an amiable bird that it's Saturday morning today and he doesn't have to go to work. He blinks and revels in this fact and in the scent of bacon, an unconscious smile sweet on his lips. He yawns and stretches his arms and lies contentedly in the mess of blanket, waking up.

Once he is functional, he gets out of bed and goes to look for Ziva. She is undoubtedly the culprit behind the aroma of eggs and bacon.

And, sure enough, Tony pads out to the kitchen and sees Ziva at the stove, her back to him, watching over two sizzling pans. When he is in the hallway, she whirls around to look at him, take in the sight of him.

He is endearingly rumpled – half his hair going the wrong way, the crease of the blanket on his cheek, the yawn stretching his mouth into an oblong oval tunnel. And for half a second, she wants to rush to him and say something that translated the profound gratitude and shame currently living in her chest.

But she thinks better of it as he comes towards her, eyes curious and on the alert for exactly this sort of behavior. Somehow, she cannot bring herself to meet his expectation.

"Good morning, Tony," says Ziva evenly.

"Good morning, Ziva." He yawns. "I see you have breakfast going."

"I hope you are in the mood for bacon and eggs," she says.

"That sounds nice," he says, genuinely enough to stir her guilt. "Do you need help?"

"No. It's done now."

He nods. She bites down on her lip but turns back to the stove to hide it. He pulls out a chair for himself and sits in it, watching with interest as she transfers the eggs and bacon carefully into two plates, one for him and one for her. Then she joins him at the table, setting the plates down and running back for the cutlery.

He half-considers offering to get them himself, but she is already back by the time the words have climbed up his throat.

"Thanks," he says, accepting the fork and knife.

"You are welcome."

They begin to eat in silence.

Meals go by quickly when there is nothing to say and it's only a few minutes until their plates are already empty. She had only made them one egg each, with two strips of bacon. When it's done and there's nothing else to distract them, they are forced to look at each other and the sight isn't pretty.

He overflows confusion, she the same but with a twist of apprehension that doesn't become her. And he longs to kiss her, with her mouth so slack before him, yet the distance across his table suddenly stretches itself across time zones and he is lost before he can even start.

He opens his mouth – he doesn't know what he wants to say just that he has to say _some_thing – but she beats him to it.

Instead of letting him wade across the ocean to her, Ziva flies towards him – her hand lifts from its spot on the table – and she lays her palm over his knuckles, her fingers fitting into the spaces between his.

He catches her eye and she curls her fingers inward, pulling his hand up and squeezing it in midair, so firm that for one wild moment he truly believes they have broken some rule of matter and physics, that the skin covering their hands and separating them falls away and her hand melts into his so that they are more together, more intimate than they've ever been.

And then she has come up from her chair and poised herself on his lap; and she kisses him once, so softly that she barely brushes against the surface of his lip, tasting of egg and morning and something uniquely, beautifully, her own. And in its clumsy way, the gesture says everything he needs to know right now.

He is still holding her hand when she leans into his ear and tells him, "I am going to take a shower. Please do the dishes."

He looks up at her just in time to see her eyes smolder with love and humor, all of it for him. And he wants to smile at her, wants to maybe kiss her again, but she has already let his hand go, walking towards his bathroom.

And as he does the dishes, he listens to her start up the shower and muses idly that since it is Saturday, he will probably follow her under the water – and she will probably let him.

* * *

A/N: Phew! Cathartic, huh? Instead of taking the nap I desperately needed this afternoon, I wrote this with a medley of soundtracks playing in the background, because I've wanted to write this for ages and I finally hit my stride when "Drops of Jupiter" by Train played.

I also didn't add an author's note in the beginning because I wanted you guys to leap right into the craziness that was the chapter's start without my comments messing with the flow. In case you were wondering.

So…I hope this worked and that you liked it and that you will review, because that's always appreciated so much more than I could ever tell you.

Cheers.  
X


	26. Degrees of Fearless

A/N: You should have seen my face as I read through all your reviews last chapter; I was blushing like a beetroot and there was this gigantic goofy smile on my face that wouldn't go away. I am over the moon that you guys still enjoy this, twenty-four chapters after that initial innocent little one-shot. "Thank you" is not a strong enough phrase. When I find one that encompasses all the gratitude a human being can possess, I will let you know.

This chapter, I have the extremely daunting task of following up a crazy emotional scene that you guys were very enthusiastic about. So…I hope you like this. I wanted it to be a little lighter but also bring into play the last serious issue I will be dealing with here in "Kaleidoscope Heart." This chapter, then four more guys! We're almost done!

Here we go…enjoy…  
xx

* * *

**XXVI. Degrees of Fearless**

To me, "fearless" is not the absence of fear. It's not being completely unafraid. To me, fearless is having fears. Fearless is having doubts. Lots of them. To me, fearless is living in spite of those things that scare you to death…Letting go is fearless. Then, moving on and being all right – that's fearless too…Because I think love is fearless.

– Taylor Swift

* * *

Monday morning, Tony walks into the office with the kind of ostentatious cheerfulness – strutting, whistling, grinning profusely – that often makes McGee extremely nervous. He eyes Tony suspiciously from over his computer monitor as Tony settles into his desk with a sunny, "Good morning, McGee."

"Morning, Tony." McGee knits his eyebrows together in concentration. "Had a good weekend?"

"As a matter of fact, I did," says Tony, logging into his computer and waiting for it to load. "And yourself?"

"It went well, thank you," says McGee. "What happened to your nose?"

Instinctively, Tony's hand goes to his nose – which is indeed still red and a little swollen from Friday night.

"Nothing," says Tony dismissively, dropping his hand and opening his email.

"Looks like something knocked you hard." McGee considers, then asks, "What did you do to piss Ziva off?"

"Nothing!" Tony repeats, this time throwing McGee a filthy look. "Geez, Probie."

"Just checking," says McGee. "I wouldn't put it past Ziva to clock you on the nose if you deserved it."

Tony is about to open his mouth and protest, but Ziva happens to cruise in at this particular moment and remark, "I didn't clock Tony on the nose, McGee. He ran into a wall."

McGee bursts out laughing. "Really?"

"Yes," says Ziva simply as Tony hastily changes his befuddled expression to a more appropriately indignant one. "It was rather entertaining."

"Well, the room was dark," he defends himself.

"Of course." Her tone drips sarcasm. "_That _was it."

"This has to be a classic," says McGee, still chuckling weakly. "Did you break it?"

"No, I didn't," says Tony. "It's just…bruised."

"Well, our dead petty officer is a little more than bruised, Dinozzo, and we're about to find out why. Grab your gear; we're going to Quantico."

Three heads turn and the image of Gibbs striding forward in his usual no-nonsense fashion fills three pairs of eyes.

Instantly, Tony has abandoned his e-mail, Ziva is picking up her bag and McGee is jumping up from his chair. Gibbs grabs his things and heads out to the elevators; the team follows like obedient ducklings.

The doors open and as they all pile in, Gibbs wrinkles his nose quizzically and asks, "What _did _you do to your nose, Dinozzo?"

And Tony can only blush.

* * *

Today's dead petty officer is Robert Hanson.

On paper, it's just a name. Two words, twelve letters. A male; a petty officer; twenty-six years old; killed in his apartment.

But when they arrive at Robert Hanson's apartment, and meet Leanne Effert, his twenty-five year old fiance, whose hand shakes so much that it takes her forty-five seconds to twist the door-knob to let them in, Robert Hanson – the loss of him – rings much deeper.

Gibbs sends McGee to the living room where Hanson lays to begin analyzing the crime scene; then, deciding Tony's social skills are better than Ziva's, orders Tony to talk to Leanne and orders Ziva to get Leanne a glass of water before joining McGee with the crime scene.

Ziva disappears to the kitchen, leaving Tony, discomfited around the obvious grief radiating from Leanne, grabs himself a seat and pulls out his pen and notepad.

This part of the job – consoling the family left behind – never gets easier, no matter how many times he does it. Some people are stoic, numb; others are edgy, angry; and some, like Leanne, make no attempt at hiding their despair – they just cry and cry, heart-rending because there is so little that can be done to appease them.

Clearing his throat and forcing himself to be brave, Tony asks, "So…Miss Effert…how long have you known Robert?"

"Call me Lee, everybody does," Leanne says shakily, wiping her eyes only to have more tears fall out. "I…I knew Robby for my whole life. We grew up together; he went to my elementary school. We were high school sweethearts and we would have gotten married the summer we graduated, but we were broke and Robby wanted to give me a big white wedding, like I'd always wanted…we were going to get married next summer, finally…"

Lee takes a moment to break into wracked sobs, face in her hands, while Tony watches, distinctly uncomfortable. Mercifully, Ziva now arrives with the glass of water, awkwardly tapping Lee on the shoulder and offering it to her.

Her lower lip still quivering, Lee accepts the water and takes a tiny sip. Tony exchanges a brief glance with Ziva and then clears his throat again.

"So, tell me about yesterday," he says. "Did anything out of the ordinary happen? Was Robby worried, antsy, anxious about something? Did he mention anything?"

Lee gives an enormous sniff and Ziva wordlessly hands her the box of tissues. Lee blows her nose, the sound wet and ugly, shattering the air.

"He never mentioned anything," says Lee. "He couldn't have seen this coming; we talk about everything, even the stupid things like…like how he saw a woman on the street yesterday with a purple coat and he thought it looked cool, so he wanted to get me a purple coat for my next birthday." Her voice breaks a little here. "He would have told me if he saw anything out of the ordinary."

"Did he have any sensitive duties at work?" asks Tony.

"No, none at all," Lee says, shaking her head. "I just…why would anyone want to kill _Robby_?" Her voice shoots up several octaves as this statement explodes from behind her lips, lighting up her eyes with terrible fire. "He is – or, _was _– the sweetest person I'd ever met. Loved telling jokes. Wouldn't even kill a spider – he'd let them crawl out of the window while I screamed and begged him to get rid of it. He of all people doesn'tdeserve to die!"

She is full of fresh sobs after this proclamation, her skin blotchy and red around her nose and her ears. It's clear to Tony that they are not getting any more out of her today, so he looks up to Ziva, who nods and takes over.

"We are going to do everything we can to figure out who would do this to Robby," says Ziva in that firm-but-reassuring way of hers, her hand on Lee's shoulder. "We will make sure the killer is brought to justice."

Lee stops crying long enough to give Ziva a long look straight in the eye, her pale blue eyes boring into Ziva's dark ones, tears clinging to her eyelashes while Ziva's are dry.

"There is no living after this," she whispers. "There's no point if I'm not with Robby."

Tony chooses now to flee, help McGee with the crime scene and Ziva takes the seat he vacates, instinctively knowing that comforting Lee is more important than taking pictures of Robert Hanson's dead body.

"I know that you are feeling a lot of things right now," says Ziva, "but you have to remember that this is not the end of the world."

"It was for Robby!" Lee shoots back.

"But not for you," Ziva reminds her. "And it will hurt for a while. You will have nightmares. Little things will make you cry. You will be confused and angry. But it is not the end of the world. Robby liked to tell jokes, right? He liked to make people smile. So smile for him."

"We wanted children," says Lee, voice tinged with hopelessness. "He'd always wanted a little boy; I'd always wanted a little girl. He was the first person I saw every morning and the last one I saw every night."

More platitudes surface in Ziva's head, but she knows they are useless when this woman's pain is so obviously beyond her meek Hallmark sympathies. So she squeezes Lee's shoulder and then rises to rejoin her team, leaving Lee where she sits. Lee curls up on the chair, hugging her knees and crying, and Ziva checks the window for fingerprints – both women do what they are best at in times of crisis.

However, even as the crime scene is finished up and the team leaves, the image of Lee crying over her dead almost-husband sticks with Ziva in a way she can't explain.

This is not the first time she has seen it – not by any stretch of the imagination – but it disturbs her, in a way.

Whenever else a couple has been seperated by murder, she found it deeply lamentable, but then she moved on, because she had to solve the case rather than pity the widow – the former did more to help her than the latter. She had suffered her own losses, and the empathy sometimes got overwhelming, when her mind went that far in idle, unguarded moments. But generally speaking, she didn't let her mind go there and it had no particular reason to disobey her, since she was never tethered the same way those widows had been.

Now, though, she _is _tethered in the same sort of way and she finds Lee in her head on and off throughout the entirety of the day.

The way she was inconsolable; the way reason bounced off her as if she had a force-field; the way she'd wanted the world and then had it all taken away from her. She was devastated by the loss of the man she loved. It had been the real thing for her.

Ziva had only ever seen Robert Hanson lifeless and limp on his living room floor, but he had been real as recently as yesterday and he had loved Lee. They had laughed together; they had kissed; they had gone out to dinner; they had made love. And now he was gone – as simply as that.

It is highly, highly disturbing – mostly because it could be familiar. Because the man she is with is mortal, with blood that could drain and a heart that could stop and a brain that could go cold.

Because if anything like this ever happened to him, she would tear up the world and she knows it.

She is sitting at her desk researching Robert Hanson's credit history when the anvil of her intimacy with Tony bears down on her, threatening to choke her.

This could be them, is all she can think. She could have to search for Tony's killer one day. She could have to learn how to live without him. She could have to go into the field without him, learn to trust someone else with her life, find classic movies to watch on her own. Her body temperature drops several degrees at the thought of it.

She is surrounded by death and ruined families everyday of her life as part of the job, but the mystery of Robert Hanson's killer is the one that brings all of this to her – and for perhaps the millionth time, Ziva wishes she wasn't in this deep. Wishes that Tony was dispensable; that she was her old self and could brush him off without a second glance; that Hanson hadn't died and forced her to think about this.

Because now she has to consider, is she okay with the possibility that this could be her? Is she okay with the fact that this relationship will continue meandering on, maybe result in rings or babies in some distant future, and that it could go away if a bullet went astray or a car didn't brake at just the right moment?

The truth of the matter is that she doesn't know. She doesn't know. And it disturbs her that maybe life will demand of her a concrete answer before she is prepared to give one.

* * *

At the restaurant that evening, waiting for their server to bring dinner out, Tony can tell Ziva has something on her mind.

She is distant, caught up in something else while they banter away; and although she tries her best to look engaged, he knows her too well and he has never had enough tact to leave her alone when she needs it.

So he stops mid-sentence and asks, "What are you thinking about, Ziva?"

For a few seconds, she considers lying, but then thinks better of it.

"I'm thinking about the case," she says. "Robert Hanson."

"Yeah." He sighs. "Wow. That was heavy. We haven't had a crier like that in a while."

She doesn't know how to respond to that, so she takes a sip of her wine. But Tony continues pondrously, "Poor Lee. Must be rough on her. I hope she's doing okay."

"She will do much better when the person who shot Robert Hanson is brought to justice," Ziva muses. "She loved him."

And there is something about the way she says those last three words – the way she sighs them, and she tilts her head down slightly, and doesn't meet his eye – that makes it click inexplicably for Tony.

"Is that what you were thinking about? That Lee loved Robby and now he's dead?" he inquires.

She doesn't speak, but she takes another sip of her wine and the gesture admits as much. Tony exhales a slow, steady stream of air as he attempts to figure the best way of approaching this conversation.

"That's not going to be you and me," he tells her. "We're going to be just fine."

"You don't know that," she reminds him.

"I'm not going to leave you," he says firmly, the words an arrow straight to where she hurts the most. "You do know that, right?"

"In my country—"

"Well, you're not there anymore," he cuts her off without bothering to hear the rest of her statement. "You're here. In America. _This _is your country now."

For once, Ziva goes silent, pondering that. She sips more wine and doesn't meet Tony's eye. Tony, however, is rather pleased with himself – with his vehemence, with the way he has clearly said something that made Ziva, queen of all things practical, think twice. She doesn't look at him, but his eyes never leave her, drinking in her caramel skin tone, her dark eyes, her open face and the slender curve of her neck, her deadly hands poised on the wine glass with the utmost delicacy.

And, abruptly, he remarks, "I like your hair today."

Puzzled, Ziva puts her hand to her hair and finds that it's curly today. She is vaguely bothered by this; in recent years, she has never much cared for her curly hair and usually runs it through the straightener, or else binds it in braids or ponytails to keep it in place.

"Thank you," she says, "but I haven't had time to do it properly."

"Well, I've always liked your hair curly," says Tony. "You used to wear it with the bandana like that."

"I did," she says. "I may have to start again; I cannot straighten it anymore, because I am always at your place."

He smiles like the Cheshire Cat.

"I like that," he says, referring to her hair and the fact that she does stay with him so often.

Her grin is smaller, sweetly crooked, understanding this about him. "I am sure you do."

At this particular moment, their waiter arrives with dinner and the two of them dig in, the mood considerably lighter than it was to begin with. Tony slurps his noodles and makes Ziva laugh with amusement and disgust; Ziva lets Tony sample her steak and steal her potatoes when he thinks she isn't looking. He is happier than he has ever been, eating dinner with her, because each time he is with her, it gets easier – easier to tease her, easier to make her smile, easier to make her believe that this is the real deal for both him and her.

Like her hair, she is looser every time he is with her; and on the way out of the restaurant, her hand finds his and stays there for the very first time until they reach their cars.

He wonders if Christmas has come early.

* * *

A/N: Lazy stupid muse of mine got lazy at the end there. Sorry about that. I also have a shit-load of homework/finals/college stuff I should be doing and I'm too lazy to do that either. I need to get my act together like nobody's business – in writing or in school. Preferably both.

But well. I hope you liked this chapter anyway. Please remember to leave a review on your way out.

Cheers.  
X


	27. The Hearts Win Out

A/N: This chapter posed a significant dilemma for me because I had every chapter mapped out except chapter 27 – and I didn't want to leave the story at 29 chapters because the ugliness of the number would drive me crazy. It was quite the dilemma.

I eventually came up with this, because I was just in the mood for a little smuttish fluff.

_**Warning – this is kind of sexual. Not too much, but definitely some. If you're squeamish, I recommend waiting for the next update.**_

I hope you like it, then…enjoy…  
X

* * *

**XXVII. The Hearts Win Out**

Oh, oh, I want some more  
Oh, oh, what are you waiting for?  
Take a bite of my heart tonight.

Oh, oh, I want some more  
Oh, oh, what are you waiting for?  
What are you waiting for?  
Take a bite of my heart tonight.

- Neon Trees, "Animal"

* * *

"So, what are you conning off of me this time?"

"It's a tough decision…I need a moment to decide."

"God. This should be illegal."

"How about…your shirt?"

"With or without tie?"

"Mmmm…without."

"Fine. And we'll throw your right shoe in the bargain. Let's do this."

Glowering, Tony re-shuffles the deck of cards and gives them each two hole cards. Grinning in that provocative way of hers, Ziva accepts her cards and holds them in a V in front of her face, her glittery eyes visible over the tops. He sighs for effect, but he is really just admiring how effortlessly sexy she is, how gratifying it is when she is open flirtatious mode.

After splitting sandwiches at his place tonight, it was Tony's idea to get drunk on the beer in the fridge – and, once the alcohol was flowing and each was pleasantly buzzed, if not full-out drunk, it was Ziva's idea to play Strip Poker.

And, of course, Ziva is winning.

While Tony is down a jacket, both his shoes, his socks and also his pants, Ziva is only down her jacket and her left shoe. And now she is clicking her tongue in a way he now knows precedes an attack – so he has already braced himself for when Ziva declares, "Raise. I add my socks."

"Raise. My tie."

She smirks. "All right. Community cards up."

Tony reveals a nine of diamonds, Jack of diamonds, and a two of spades – and, quick as a flash, looks to Ziva, hoping to catch some revealing glimmer in her eye that would help him figure out which cards she's hiding from him.

But of course that doesn't happen: even drunk, Ziva's poker face is better than his.

"Hmmm." Tony makes a face at the six of diamonds and the queen of spades before him, wondering how to proceed. "I don't have many more clothes left, so I think I'll just call."

"Boring," Ziva scoffs. "I raise. My shirt."

Tony gives a low whistle. "You must have a _really _good hand," he remarks.

"Or a willingness to get naked," she points out with a drunken giggle.

"There's that too." Tony clears his throat. "Shall I upturn the turn?"

"I would be insulted if you didn't."

Tony upturns it – a king diamonds. Not bad.

"I call," he announces.

"Again?" Ziva arches her neck a bit, exposing more of her throat, and chews on a stray strand of her hair in an apparently unconscious display of maddening sexuality. "Well, then, I'll have to raise, won't I? My bra."

"I really hope I win this one," Tony mutters under his breath. "Ready to see the final card?"

"I am."

The two watch with bated breath as Tony upturns the final community card.

An ace of diamonds.

His eyes flick upward to Ziva, who is already staring at him, already waiting for him, a do-me smile playing on her lips as she leans in.

"I think it's time to fold," she purrs.

Obediently, he lays his cards down and she lays hers.

Her two hole cards were a seven of diamonds and an ace of clubs, making her final hand a straight flush – ace, king, jack, nine, seven, all of diamonds.

His hole cards were the six of diamonds and queen of spades, making his final hand a straight flush too – an ace, king, jack, nine and six.

He reaches the conclusion about the same time she does: their eyes lock in again and Ziva's laugh is so menacing that it makes the hairs on the back of Tony's neck stand on end.

"I win!" she announces, as if he didn't already know. "So I get…what, your shirt and tie?"

"Apparently," groans Tony. "Geez, Ziva. This is ridiculous."

But she just cackles, no sympathy to speak of, and takes a swig of her half-full mug of beer.

"Would you like some help with that shirt?" she offers with a mischievous smirk.

He just has to look at her once – and in half a second, she's up from her chair and she's straddling his lap, getting comfortable with her legs wide open over the union of his torso and his legs. On instinct, he inhales sharply, his fuzzy brain overwhelmed by the sensory explosion that she is, with her warmth and her heat and her weight and her smile and her hair, tickling the side of his face, and her eyes, which are dazzling black-holes, leading to forever.

Her smile really is too much. Her breath is warm on his chin as she begins fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, taking care to do them slowly. He, in turn, is a little breathless, because this is the first time he has ever played this kind of game with her; before, it had always been a matter of ripping their clothes off as quickly as possible to get to the good stuff. He has never experienced her making him work to the resolution.

She gets the buttons open, revealing a middle sliver of his upper body. The nerve endings along this sliver inform him that he is cold, but with Ziva sitting on top of him, beginning to tease the shirt from his shoulders, it is impossible to feel anything but uncomfortably, wonderfully hot.

"This is so unfair," he complains as she pulls the shirt down to a pool of material by his wrists.

She just laughs softly. "You will have to get better at your poker face, then, yes?"

He shakes his wrists impatiently out of the shirt so that he may use his hands to squeeze her hips, his fingernails searching for her skin beneath the fabric; and then he buries his face into her neck, the curtain of her hair all around him, and he ravages her, devours her, until he hears her moan, the sounds much more intimate now that his ears are just near her throat.

"I'm better in other ways," he tells her behind her ear, igniting an involuntary shiver down the length of her back.

He is surprised to hear her laugh again.

"Do not flatter yourself," he hears her say with relish. "I will always be there to one-up you."

Taking advantage of his hands on her hips, she begins slowly rotating them, grinding them, against his. She can feel his breath tighten in her neck and her low chuckle is all the more tantalizing for it; she loses her fingers in his hair and then nibbles on his ear, as sweetly and as thoroughly as a rabbit breaking down its carrot.

And she's right – as she always is – because involuntarily he feels another moan escape his lips, because even though this isn't the first time they've been here, he doesn't know what to do with someone like her, who can make the fiftieth time feel like the first if she wants to.

The arousal is obvious in his pants and she takes great pleasure in his anticipation, in how easily she can rile him up when she's in the mood.

Poker game now forgotten, his fingers scramble up to her bra and he tries to unhook it, tries to free her of it to get to what's underneath. And though she arches her back into him, drawn to his touch, she clicks her tongue and twists her hands up to meet his, stopping him.

"Not so fast," she tells him. "You have to win before you collect the prize."

He sighs into her shoulder.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you," he says with notable bitterness.

But she is alive with playfulness.

"Yes," she tells him, bringing his hands out of her shirt and in between their bodies, her fingers clasping his tightly, firmly. "But only because I enjoy _you_."

He leans upward and captures her lips neatly in his, and it has to be the nicest kiss he's ever shared with her – because he expected her to play with him, give him a little and then pull back, but she doesn't. She stops driving him crazy with those hips of hers, holds his hair with affection rather than with need, and settles into the kiss as if she has jumped back-first onto a feathery mattress.

She's a little sloppy tonight – her tongue is loose and her lips are slack, probably because of the drinking – but she is also the sincerest she has ever been: she's not a ninja warrior, just a girl kissing a boy whom she likes, maybe even loves.

And his unquenchable thirst for sex is somehow quenched as he finds this out about their kiss, as he holds her against him just to hold her rather than to clutch to her for dear life. They fit together, just like this, kissing each other in the dark of his apartment with the poker game properly forgotten behind them, the printed cards unimportant when the heart wins out after all.

She is so warm. She has always been so – her core body temperature generally does stay the same, even when she's around him – but tonight, he marvels at it, because her warmth just re-emphasizes that startling, awe-inspiring fact that Ziva is here, _here_, in his arms and nowhere else, simply because she wants to be.

It hits him with the heft of a train barreling into a stone wall; and mid-kiss, he breaks away and informs her quietly, a little desperately, "I need you."

She is puzzled more than anything, pulling back and eyeing him as though he just told her he has a terminal illness.

"What for?" she asks.

He's so startled by his confession and her not-panicked reaction that he has to take a moment to compose himself, try to explain to his own brain why he needs her so much, why he felt now was a good time to tell her so.

No viable answer comes to him, so he just tells her, "I don't really know. I just…do."

She still appears bemused, made even more so by the inexplicable kissed quality to her lipstick-less mouth – and maybe it's just the alcohol mellowing her out more than usual or maybe she really is just that much different since they started going out, but she says, "Okay," as plainly, honestly, as one human being can say to another.

And then she kisses him again, but briefly, this time hugging his head to her chest, letting his weight sag on her a little at first, but then more so until he's leaning on her all the way, and she holds him as he held her, and the vulnerability he has been coaxing out of her hits him like that barreling train again when he reciprocates, because it's mind-blowing how difficult it was for him to make the simplest of declarations, that he needs her with him.

Maybe it's a good thing they're both drunk, he muses as they make their way to his bedroom: he's quite sure he would never have dared to tell her he needed her under the light of day.

But a step is a step and he leaps into his quite willingly, needing her and needing her and needing her and being grateful that he has her, all the way into the morning.

* * *

A/N: Just so you lot know, I have absolutely no idea how to play poker. I had to give myself a quick lesson on the game before I started writing and I still didn't know if I did it right. So please be kind if I got some of the rules wrong or anything – because I'm clueless and poker confuses me.

My rationale for Tony making that very blunt statement at the end? Because he and Ziva have both failed at romantic relationships for pretty much their whole lives, and now there's this thing that feels real, feels permanent – and she's here, she's real, and he needs her around. It's as simple as that. & alcohol is always a great way to loosen a person's tongue.

Hope you enjoyed it, then, & please be sure to leave a review on your way out of the browser.

Cheers.  
X


	28. Redefinition

A/N: Now, I know it still doesn't feel like it, but I really am almost done with this story – it really is on its ending spiral now. And actually, I'm kind of glad it doesn't feel like it's ending, because I think Tony and Ziva should be together for a long time and their vast relationship shouldn't be confined to just my thirty measly chapters.

This chapter is fairly short, and it took me a lot less time to write than I thought, so it's up earlier than intended. Yay earliness!

Hope you like this, then…enjoy.  
X

* * *

**XXVIII. Redefinition**

Maybe I'm just lucky, 'cause it's hard to believe  
Believe that somebody like you'd end up with someone like me  
And I know that it's so cliché to talk about you this way  
But I'll push all my inhibitions aside  
It's so very obvious to everyone watching us  
That we have got something real good going on

- Relient K, "Must Have Done Something Right"

* * *

It is when Tony is in the usual mile-long line for coffee in the morning, so absent-minded that he doesn't realize it's his turn already, that he realizes – truly realizes – what is happening to him.

Normally, he is as rabid as his fellow coffee-drinkers, bumping the line along so he can put in his order and get on with the morning. But this morning, images of Ziva last night playing poker, taunting his game and kissing him sweetly and nuzzling him before falling asleep and almost blowing his ear off with her snoring, have distracted him to the point where the guy behind him shoves him in the knees and the guy at the counter has to shout, "Sir? What can I get you this morning?"

Hastily, he places his order so as not to draw the mob to him, but he walks out with his coffee in wonderment, driving to work auto-pilot, wondering how it had snuck up on him the way it has.

The beginning of his relationship with Ziva was fraught with complication. What the password meant; what the fact that they were having sex meant; what working with her after that meant. There was a lot of definition involved, a lot of friction – a lot of him essentially trying to woo Ziva, show her he was good for her while remaining uneasy about exactly how good for her he was. They defined their relationship as an entity outside of themselves that existed and nothing more, content for a while with just sex, with simply catching up on five years of mutual physical attraction.

And now…now he is reduced to thinking about her in the coffee line and ruining the mornings of several well-meaning commuters.

But there's more to it than that. It's the fact that this morning, she took her toothbrush out of her bag and left it in the cup where his toothbrush sits, telling him casually as anything that she needs to remember to buy another toothbrush and also that she needs a drawer at his place, because she hates re-wearing clothes after nights with him.

It's the fact that he listens to her favorite radio station instead of his favorite radio station every morning – including this one – because it's like she's in the car with him, like they're connected somehow because she's listening to the same thing in her own car on the way to work.

It's the fact that he has been to her place and seen her cry and held her tightly and that in the coffee shop, he didn't bother to flirt with the blonde long-legged girl two people behind him, who had been eyeing him up in a way he used to enjoy not so long ago.

It's also the fact that last night, he took initiative and told her he needed her.

He can't remember the last time he's done that – if he's ever done it at all.

Tony can't help pondering that one as he comes to a stop in front of a red light. _I need you_. Three simple, monosyllabic words – words he never felt the need to say – out of his mouth and into Ziva's highly tuned but deeply evasive ears. Whether he was under the influence or not is irrelevant: the words still came out of his mouth and into her ears and he can't take it back. She will remember that he said them – and even if she doesn't, he will.

He needs her.

With their history and their particular personality quirks, that is still such a strange thought.

Everything about being with her is strange, though. The way he feels like he is wearing away at her when in reality she's wearing away on him, holding him responsible for how he feels as he reigns her in; the way he really doesn't flirt anymore because he's got his hormones hypersecreting in her company alone; the way he is sometimes tempted to go buy her something, a flower or a Kit Kat bar or something, just because he wants to show her he's been thinking of her.

Hard as she is, she softens him – and maybe that's why he needs her so much: because she does inspire these silly, vulnerable gestures of affection in him when he thought he was going to spend the rest of his romantic life a nomad.

And he has found, for the second time in recent memory, that redefining his unwritten code of male promiscuity is kind of wonderful if he does it right.

Ziva makes him happy, plain and simple, even if she can be a pain in his ass. And he determines, pulling into his parking spot at NCIS and sipping his previously untouched coffee, that he will keep her around.

He has to.

* * *

It is when Tony walks into the office whistling and beaming at the world around him, passing by her desk and brushing his fingers across hers as they lay poised on her keyboard, making goosebumps erupt on the spot, that Ziva realizes – truly realizes – what is happening to her.

Normally, she is light-hearted in her banter when Tony comes her way, asking him about his night and countering each of his comments with an affectionately barbed one of her own. But this morning, images of him the night before, losing to her at poker and desiring her when she teased and holding her tightly and falling asleep like that, have distracted her to the point where it takes both Tony and McGee a couple of yells to get her attention.

She hastily responds and goes back to her work to avoid suspicion, but she types now in wonderment, on auto-pilot, wondering how it had snuck up on her like it has.

Ziva – even when in-lust with someone – has never been the domestic type. It's just not how she operates. She is rough, and heady, and flirty, and sexual to the millionth degree, burning through a relationship in a few weeks and then dropping it when it cools, a pattern that worked well and had very few exceptions.

And now…now she is reduced to thinking of Tony even in the few moments she's not with him, disrupting her blissfully solitary commute to work.

But there's more to it than that. It's the fact this morning, she took her toothbrush out of her bag and left it in the cup where his toothbrush sits, telling him casually as anything that she needs to remember to buy another toothbrush and also that she needs a drawer at his place, because she hates re-wearing clothes after nights with him.

It's the fact that even though she loves to drive with her furious road rage, ripping through streetlights and leaving black tire marks on the street, she sometimes slows down and waits at the yellow lights, remembering with a smirk Tony's face the first time he ever drove with her in the NCIS car and he felt the full impact of her recklessness.

It's the fact that she practically lives at his place, barely ever going to hers, and has let him see her cry, let him hold her tightly and that she has stopped grinning seductively at any halfway-decent-looking man who eyes her in a way she used to like a short time ago.

It's also the fact that last night, he took initiative and told her he needed her.

She can't remember the last time anyone accused her of being necessary.

Ziva can't help pondering that one as she finishes up the report she's typing before Gibbs barges in on them this morning. _I need you_. Three simple, monosyllabic words – words she hates saying and hates hearing even more for the responsibility they dump on her – out of his mouth and into her own ears. Whether he was under the influence or not is irrelevant: the words still came out of his mouth and into her ears and he can't take it back. She will remember that he said them – and she's pretty sure he will too, because he's not the kind to forget things like that.

He needs her.

With their history and their particular personality quirks, that is still such a strange thought.

Everything about being with him is strange, though. The way he wears her down like a sand-castle on the beach when she'd always assumed she was much sturdier than he was in matters of the heart; the way she really doesn't flirt anymore because she enjoys letting him have the monopoly on her and in turn enjoys having the monopoly on him; the way that some time ago she would have been revolted by the dancing and the cuddling and the vulnerability she shows in his presence and now she is letting them flow out of her with all the natural ease of water going down-river, content to follow it because it feels nice sometimes, going with the current rather than beating it back every inch of the way.

Hard as she often is, he softens her – and maybe that's why she is slowly allowing herself to adjust to him needing her: because he does inspire something feminine and open and sweet in her when she thought she was going to spend the rest of her romantic life a nomad.

And she has found, for the first time in recent memory, that redefining her unwritten code of female promiscuity is kind of wonderful if she does it right.

Tony makes her happy, plain and simple, even if he can be a pain in her ass. And she determines, typing up the last of her report with flourish, that she will keep him around.

She has to.

* * *

A/N: I love pieces like these because really, I just had to write it once; then I copy-pasted and changed up the phrases that needed to be changed up for Ziva's perspective. Double the output for just a little more than the original effort, which was minimal to begin with because I love narrative summary to bits and pieces. (Much easier to write than specifics.)

I intend to get the next couple chapters done in the next couple weeks. They are going to get me through pre-finals week, to keep me sane. Then…we're done. Oh snap.

Hope you liked this then. Please review on your way out.

Cheers.  
X


	29. Scarred

A/N: You would not believe how hard it was to write this chapter.

I had an idea, but halfway through writing it, I realized I hated the way it flowed and the way it sounded. I also felt like it was too much like the other chapters. So I scrapped it. But then I was stuck trying to figure out something else because I wasn't sure how to bridge 28 and 30.

So I started writing 30 and realized the beginning portion of that was lame and proceeded to bang my head against the wall because I can't write worth a damn. It was just one of those days.

I half-assed my homework and reworked Chapter 30. Then, somehow, Chapter 29 revealed itself to me over the course of an evening (very, _very _slowly) and now it's done. & that's why the wait was so long. Clearly, my brain is ready to be done with this story and rest a while.

With that epic back-story in mind, then, go forth and (fingers crossed) enjoy.  
xx

* * *

**XXIX. Scarred**

All of these lines across my face  
Tell you the story of who I am  
So many stories of where I've been  
And how I got to where I am  
But these stories don't mean anything  
When you've got no one to tell them to

It's true  
I was made for you

- Brandi Carlile, "The Story"

* * *

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The alarm is unforgiving and shrill, jolting him out of the cushy comfort of sleep into the glare of reality with no gentleness to speak of.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Tony rolls over with an agonized mumble, curling the pillow over his ears and scrunching his face in – clearly letting Ziva set her obnoxious cell phone as their alarm today instead of his softer, politer alarm clock was a mistake.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

He kicks his leg to Ziva's side of the bed, desiring nothing more than for her to shut that accursed thing off and let him sleep a while longer – he could swear he's only been asleep a few minutes and it can't be morning yet – but his foot finds only air.

Surprise alone causes his eyes to open, alarmed and a little panicked, wondering where Ziva is if her cell phone is still beeping from the table. He tries to crane his neck to look for her, but it hurts him so he has to sit up in order to get a good view.

As it turns out, Ziva is in the bathroom, visible because she left the bedroom and bathroom doors open; she is wearing his shirt and brushing her hair, calm and cool as anything. Tony narrows his eyes, confused; but a yawn takes him over and he snatches her cell phone as he collapses back on the mattress, turning off the beeper and rubbing his eyes to get rid of the sleep.

Ziva notices and walks into the room, grinning.

"Well, it's about time," she notes grimly. "I have been letting that thing beep for ten minutes now."

"Why would you do that?" asks Tony, incredulous. "What have I done to deserve such cruel and unusual punishment?"

"You sleep like a hog," she informs him.

"Log, Ziva, log," Tony tells her through another yawn. "I sleep like a log."

"Yes, so instead of making noises in your ear or slapping you in the rear end, as I considered doing, I let you wake up by yourself," Ziva says serenely.

He throws her a look but she just smirks and goes on brushing her hair. Yawning yet again, Tony pads over to her and rests his chin on her shoulder, watching himself in the mirror as he brings her waist into his gut, enjoying having to find her curves under his over-sized, shapeless T-shirt.

"It's too early," he mumbles, inhaling her neck.

"It's nine o'clock," says Ziva with a snort. "We need to get ready."

"You're not ready," he points out.

"I have to finish my hair, then I will get dressed," she says, peering down at his head on hers like a Siamese mutation. "I'm ahead of you so far. You had better catch up."

"I want to go back to sleep," he says, bringing her in so close, so possessively, that she stumbles a little on the spot. In a flash, her heel is in his calf and he buckles, nearly dragging her down with him.

"What is wrong with you?" asks Ziva, wrinkling her nose at him.

"I'm a guy with a hot girlfriend," Tony says. "Going back to bed sounds pretty good right about now."

She chuckles and sets her hairbrush down, planting a kiss on the top ring of his outer ear. "Well, we have to go to work," she reminds him. "Otherwise, you will lose your job and bed will be all you are good for."

"Doesn't sound half bad right now," Tony remarks.

Ziva disentangles Tony's arms from her torso and attacks his hair with the brush, making him screw his face up in irritation.

"We need to get ready," she repeats. "Come on, jump to it."

"Hop," he corrects her at once as he grudgingly obliges her, trudging to his closet for something to wear.

He can hear her snort even when he's in the closet rustling hangers: she has never been one for subtlety when something colors her amused.

And he finds that he likes this about her, listening to her turn on the tap and brush her teeth in his bathroom. He doesn't like her alarm clock, but he likes how it made her laugh when he arrived in her presence like a grumpy toddler.

He dresses quickly right there in the closet and then comes back out to the main bedroom to get his socks and continue to the bathroom, where he can brush his teeth and tame his hair, which currently stands in five different directions in a manner reminiscent of a tornado-ravaged bird's nest. But in the main bedroom, he is slightly startled to find Ziva wearing her brown pants and attempting to get the hook in her bra done.

She sees him pause by the closet door and, far from being embarrassed, beckons him over with a tilt of her head, saying, "Can you help me with this? This one has three hooks instead of two…it's horrendous…"

"Um, sure." Sure he is blushing, though he has seen her topless many times before, Tony slips forward and hooks the bra for her, her skin surprisingly cool instead of flushed. But there's something there that makes him hesitate, a dark look passing over his autumn eyes: a small but substantial mark in the shape of a perfect circle, as deliberate as they come but easy to miss in a hurry – which Tony was always in when he scrambled to open her bra and experience what lay beneath it.

The look of it, like a watchful eye, disturbs him. But she, noticing nothing, adjusts the bra in the front and turns around, a good-natured smile on her lips.

"Thank you," she says.

"No problem," he remarks, though he has a dazed, glazed sort of air to him, something she can't quite put her finger on.

"What is it?" she asks, her smile faltering, her eyebrows knitting together in a quizzical way.

"You have a…scar there," he says, obviously disturbed, eyes on where he had just hooked her bra. "How did that happen?"

"I don't know," she says, significantly defensive. "It was probably an accident."

"But this one is a circle," he says, tone steady but body language shrinking somewhat, troubled by the mark and the story that probably lies behind it. "It wasn't an accident."

Face suddenly serious, like an animal waiting to hear danger in the air in the jungle, Ziva puts her hand to her back under her bra and feels around until her fingers reach the spot with the scar. And something changes in her face then, her relaxed happiness morphing into a little anguished before she catches herself and becomes stoic again.

"It is nothing, Tony," she tells him in a tone that warns him to leave this right here. "Just a scar. I have many."

This statement disturbs him almost as much as the scar – the nature of it coupled with her determined calm, but also the fact that after all the times they have had sex, he was so lost in the present that he never bothered looking for the indications of her past that she wore all over her body.

If it hadn't been for Ziva picking up a bra with three hooks when she packed her bag, he would never have known about this scar at all – a chilling thought.

He is silent as she slips on her shirt and smoothes out her hair, wondering about this, about the other stories she hasn't told him, the other scars she hasn't exposed to him in the light of day. She finishes sprucing and banishes him to the bathroom to get dressed, apparently having let go of the incident with the scar, playfully slapping his rear end and telling him she'll spare him some breakfast if he hurries up. She leaves the room with a whiff of her perfume and he is alone again, but he has not recovered from the sight of her scar the way she has.

Because it reminds him with the force of an anvil on his head in the midst of their morning recreation that the woman he is with is scarred. She has lived most of her life without him and he knows relatively little about her, because that life was ambiguous and while it looms like a storm cloud over her present, he has only gotten ripples of the weather patterns thus far. Never has he gone into the storm with her. Never has she let him.

That scar was not made by accident. Someone burned her and she carries the evidence with her to this day. There is a story associated with it – some mission gone wrong, some unfortunate side-effect of her job with Mossad – but he doubts he will ever hear it.

That story and the stories that are like it linger in the shadows, always present between them but never concrete, never clarified. He still doesn't know exactly what happened to her in Somalia. But he knows things did happen and the story comes out in the recoil she has sometimes when she's touched, how she clouded over when he asked about the circular scar.

In a way, the stories come out through these gestures, the cracks in her exterior when these things are brought up – and it reminds him that she is not whole, that he is dealing here with damaged goods.

The fact that he even knows the existence of horror stories is more than most in her acquaintance can boast – because she trusts him in a way that is implicit and goes much deeper than she would ever let on.

And, at the risk of sounding melodramatic, Tony apprehends more clearly than he ever has, standing alone in his room, that if for whatever reason something happens between them, Ziva will probably never trust anyone this way anymore. She can't take another betrayal, another disappointment – so he has to stay.

He has to, or behind the composure, she will fall apart.

Tony spends much of his life hiding from responsibility and cruising through the rough spots with a joke or a bottle of beer, feeling more like a high school boy playing pretend than an accountable grown-up, but he feels older now, slowly padding off to the bathroom to brush his teeth and his hair before Ziva yelled at him to hurry up.

He is a self-confessed commitment-phobe – the high-school-boy mindset lends itself pretty easily to that – and it's moments like these when he feels daunted by the weight of a relationship with someone like Ziva, who needs his dependability so desperately. This isn't easy for him either – he doesn't know what he's doing any more than she does – and he does have to wonder if he's cut out for this, if he's really so good for her in the long run.

He's under a lot of pressure and he might as well admit it – he is intimidated. She bears so many scars.

The Colgate is cool and minty and bracing in his mouth as he brushes his teeth. He is just finishing with his hair, carefully applying the gel so that it stays, when he hears Ziva call as he knew she would, saying, "You are late. I'm leaving now; waiting around for you is not worth my job, Tony."

"I'll see you at work," Tony calls back. "Did you leave me anything?"

"There is toast by the oven," is Ziva's reply before the front door opens and closes and the apartment is silent again.

With a sigh, knowing that Ziva is quite right and he has to get to work now, Tony puts the final touches on his hair and races out to find his shoes. He finds that indeed, Ziva has left him some toast – two slices, one with butter and one with jelly, the way he likes them during breakfast. He grins as he takes them and heads out the door, and he takes a large bite of the jelly-covered one in the elevator on the way downstairs.

Ziva is just leaving the building when Tony arrives on the main floor. He gets a view of her back as she walks out – her hair cascading down in brown waves, her tiny rear end especially flattered by the brown pants she is wearing. And along with the warmth she inspires, there is a twinge of uneasiness.

She has never been so human, so unstable and truly risky, until this morning – and, he grasps with a jolt, neither has he.

* * *

A/N: Phew. Finally. This chapter has been such a bitch to me all day. Only now, so many hours later, has it finally played nice with me.

I have Chapter 30 almost written, but it needs a little more work before I'm satisfied with it, so you will need to wait another day or two before I post that. And then we are DONE with _Kaleidoscope Heart_! Gah!

I'd love you forever if you reviewed before exiting out of the browser, so please do that and I'll see you next chapter!

Cheers.  
X


	30. Game Plan

A/N: And here it is. The final chapter. Chapter 30, finally done to the point where I am sick of it and don't even know what else to do with it. It takes place the evening of last chapter's morning scene. The pressure on me to get this right is enormous but I hope I rose adequately to the challenge.

Cheers, then…  
X

* * *

**XXX. Game Plan**

Even the best fall down sometimes  
Even the stars refuse to shine  
Out of the back you fall in time  
I somehow find  
You and I collide

- Howie Day, "Collide"

* * *

It's a little before midnight later the same evening, the sky inky black outside of Tony's window.

The night is windy, the rushes of air rattling and shaking and disturbing everything in sight, banging against the building like a persistent intruder. Usually by now, they have finished their first round of sex and it's silent, so they listen to the intimate sounds of the other's breathing, curled up together, unwilling to let go of the warmth.

But it's a windy night tonight and although Ziva's hand lays on Tony's palm, she is farther away from him, her head turned towards the window instead of his face, her hair erratic against the glowing milky-white of the pillow behind her. He cannot even hear her breathe; he must rely on the up and down motions of her chest to remind him of her humanity.

Clearly, she is tender tonight.

He doesn't dare scoot any closer to her – he doesn't want to scare her off – but he strokes her hand with his thumb, trying to ease the tension obvious in her fingers. But she doesn't subside.

In fact, she is thinking about this morning, and kicking herself for letting him hook that damn bra.

She's not sure why she's so upset that he saw the scar. It's not as if he hasn't seen her naked before, because he has. It's not as if he doesn't know she has scars, because he does. And it's not as if he even saw a particularly nasty one, because he didn't. But still, he was disturbed by the little thing this morning and she is disturbed by the fact that he is disturbed at all.

Because if this is how he reacts to a little circle in her mid-back, she can't imagine how he would react to the more serious things she hides from him.

For perhaps the millionth time since this relationship intensified, Ziva finds herself questioning Tony's viability as a boyfriend. As a fling, he would be perfect – funny, good-looking, easy to tease. As anything else, she has never been sure. He has given her indications that he is serious – many, in fact, over the course of five years – and yet, the 'but's' never stop intruding upon her thoughts. It seems that every good thing he does for her is tainted with a doubt she has in him. And he deserves better than that, really, though she might as well admit to herself that she would knife all of his subsequent girlfriends if he ever did move on from her.

She wants him around but she cannot keep him. It's the worst kind of dilemma and she ends up here all the time, faltering and giving in and faltering again, again, again.

But she has been in destructive cycles for too long to indulge this one any longer: she needs to make a decision that will stick, that will remain anchored when the rest of her is in the clouds. And tonight, raw and windy, seems as good a night as any to decide.

Ziva now chooses to turn and look at Tony, but his eyes are on the ceiling and she wonders what he's thinking about, with his eyes so faraway like that. She almost asks, then realizes she doesn't want to know – but she does want his attention again. She wants to remember who she is breaking all her personal laws for, as if he hasn't already given her enough hints as it is.

In the space of half a second, her idle hand has taken Tony's, squeezing it tightly, her fingers woven between his in a way that is kind of sweet, kind of unlike her. So of course Tony turns to look at her too and is met with her kiss, delicate and probing on his mouth in a way that makes him suspicious.

He breaks the kiss and practically bores his irises into hers, staring at the tissue that makes up her brown eyes as though it will tell him something – and it does, because involuntarily, her pupils dilate and he knows that it's fear and doubt and all those things he had been trying to fight out of her brewing in a way that threatens to overwhelm her.

And she, in trying to read why he's staring at her so intensely, sees his pupils stay exactly the same – because scared as he is, he has wracked his brains all day trying to figure out what to do with someone like her and he has come to the solid conclusion that commitment-phobe or not, he's the emotionally brave one between them and it's up to him to continue showing her that it's okay to love him, to let him love her in return.

He has to be hopeful enough for both of them because she needs him to prove her wrong to begin healing those scars of hers – and he needs her to keep him responsible, on his toes, committed to her in a way he's never trusted himself to be. That's the truth at the bottom of it.

So, with all of this in mind, Tony feels compelled to open his mouth and inform her over the windy din outside, "I don't know what we are doing here."

As expected, she looks at him strangely, wrinkling her nose with confusion.

He explains, "I say that because you and I are the kind of people who like concrete answers to complicated questions that involve risk. We've had histories of failed relationships and even with this one, we have a variety of excellent reasons not to work out. We don't know what we are doing here – we can't predict it with any certainty. But if you want, we can try to stop questioning everything and be honest with ourselves and take this day by day. Just…I don't know, trust that it'll work itself out if we stick around long enough."

It takes Ziva a significant amount of effort to swallow down the egg-sized lump now forming in her throat. They listen quietly to the howling wind for several seconds before she has an answer.

"That sounds noble enough right now," she says, "but it just delays the inevitable. This has to end somewhere." Echoing her thoughts from the shooting on the train and the murder of Robert Hanson, she asks, "What if we get married? What if I get pregnant? What if one of us dies? What if we grow tired of each other and break up? What if we lose our jobs to this relationship? Where do you see this going, Tony?" Her voice breaks a little at the end, on his name.

And all Tony can do is shrug helplessly.

"I don't know," he tells her, "and that's my point – that we just have to keep trying and hope for the best. Because, I mean, I can't _not _be with you, so the only other option is…being with you, whatever that means for however long it is."

She purses her lips, deeply uncomfortable.

So they are both in the same place, trying to make a final decision on how to move forward. But he, unlike her, has enough faith in them to go against his impulse for control and let their relationship ride the winds that could be as cruel to them as the ones outside. She has never understood his faith but seeing it displayed so honestly, unflinchingly, before her changes her, makes her want to follow him and mimic him and believe in them too. Even though she does, of course, have instincts that warn against it.

The egg-sized lump in her throat mutates to the size of a grapefruit and Ziva swallows again, feeling violated somehow, as though the last reason she had not to fall for him – fear of him leaving her – has been peeled away from her, leaving her exposed and trembling without any kind of consolation. But when she meets Tony's eyes again, she finds they are smoldering like a three-layer hazel cake melting into lumpy goop on the oven floor, waiting for her to realize that he's right.

She bites down hard on her lower lip – body language Tony knows to indicate anxiety. And he understands, he knows how hard this is for her, because it's hard for him too. But she's been an excellent field partner so far and despite everything, they have as good a shot as anyone. They really do.

So he leans in without thinking and his kiss oozes surrender. But as she deepens it in her own surrender, she mumbles against his lips tentatively, a little brokenly, "I love you."

Nothing and no one order her to say it, but she does anyway – and even though it's the second time she's said it, he pretends it's the first and his insides flutter.

Her kiss becomes confirmation, then, of this lumbering-but-hopeful game plan he has laid out for them. A decision at last. Clumsy as they tend to be in matters of the heart, they can agree that whatever it is, it is worth the effort. And when it makes them feel this complete, flourishing, and wonderful, you have to blunder forward against all logic, all reason, endgame be damned.

You just have to. And you hope and run and you leap-frog over the odds together because that's what you do, isn't it? That's what you do when you're in love.

* * *

Even the best fall down sometimes  
Even the wrong words seem to rhyme  
And out of the doubt that fills your mind  
You finally find  
you and I collide

You finally find  
you and I collide

- Howie Day, "Collide"

* * *

A/N: Right. So, you guys won't know this, but I have this traditional end-of-story speech I do every time I finish a long project, just as a way to kind of clinch the crazy. Here it goes…-throatclear-

Now, as you know quite well (because I've been reminding you every step of the way) this story was never supposed to happen. Innocently, I wrote a one-shot – enjoyed writing it too – and posted it, thinking maybe a couple of people would review and I'd be happy that I'd done something out of my comfort zone.

But, clearly, things didn't go according to _that _plan.

I was blown away by the fact that so many people reviewed and favorited and got excited, wanted me to continue. I cannot emphasize enough my astonishment that my writing style was not only applicable, but seemingly well-suited, for the task at hand – that there were people in the world who actually looked forward to reading what I had to say. So, as you know, I listened to you and continued. But even then, who could have predicted _Kaleidoscope Heart_, my little experiment, would reach the robust 70k+ words it is now? I certainly hadn't.

It's been quite a journey to get here. It's been frustrating and wonderful and mind-blowing, but I've loved every frustrating, wonderful, mind-blowing second of it and I thank you from the bottom of the black hole that is my heart for your readership.

I will continue to write NCIS – and Tiva – so watch out for me. I've already got a small militia of one-shot ideas for my muse to chew on and play with, and I can't wait to try out some different stuff. It'll be fun.

Thanks again.

Much love,  
Zay


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